


such a constellation was he to me

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dogs, Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Self-Isolation, Sweet boys being sweet, and snarky but mainly sweet, david is technologically challenged, good people being nice people, no one is sick, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: "You just muted it!” the man snaps.“Stop touching things!”“YOU stop touching things.”“Um,” Patrick starts, clearing his throat. “I can hear you just fine.”The two people on the other side of the screen freeze and the woman bends down, pressing nearly cheek-to-cheek with Patrick’s 2pm.“Well, aren’t you just a button,” she says before the man physically elbows her out of frame.Or, what if David and Patrick met in self-isolation?
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 182
Kudos: 693





	such a constellation was he to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/gifts).



> "But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.”  
> \- Circe, Madeline Miller
> 
> AN: Everything is the same (the obvious excluded) except Patrick already has his own place. And he doesn't live alone...

There’s a blue post-it stuck to the edge of his laptop, reminding him of his meetings for the day - and also what day of the week it actually is. It’s easy to lose track now. Mornings tumble into afternoons which crash into evenings. Days aren’t notable for where they fall in a particular week. It’s just time - existence - and after nearly a month now (has it been?), it’s all started blurring together.

Only he would have the kind of luck to move to a new town, start a new job, and have the world get hit by a pandemic a week later. Serves him right, maybe. For leaving the way he did. 

He sets his 1:30pm tea down on the desk in his bedroom and makes sure that the angle of the computer doesn’t actually show the bed. Having put himself through business school, he has no problem working from home, but he also understands the need for a tidy space to do it in. He had to come up with new and creative ways to hide the moving boxes until he was completely settled. 

It was his mother’s idea to start setting alarms for everything - meals, coffee breaks, his morning catch ups with Ray. She got the idea from some mental health expert on some morning show, and he’s loath to admit it’s working. 

He looks at the post-it again, taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea before making sure the other occupant of his tiny open concept one-bedroom is adequately occupied with the new toy he ordered online. 

**THURSDAY**   
**11am: Ray - Daily check in**   
**12pm: Bob Curry - Remortgage**   
**2pm: David Rose - General Store**   
**5pm: Mom - Yes, still alive**

He has plenty of paperwork to keep him occupied in the intervening hours. Plenty of calls to make and forms to fill out and emails to respond to. This quarantine won’t last forever, despite what some of the pundits on the news say, and he has to think about **after** because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might actually lose his mind. 

His five-minute warning for his 2pm chimes on his phone and he smooths his hands down the front of his dark blue button-down and takes a seat in front of the laptop, banging out a quick answer to a follow up query from Bob Curry before opening Zoom and entering in the meeting ID Ray emailed him the day before. 

He looks washed out in the light from the computer, but it’s fine, it’s not like he’s aiming to impress - 

And then the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on in his life appears on the screen.

Fuck.

Oh, oh _fuck_. 

“Is this thing on? How do I - ” the man starts, hitting buttons on the keyboard before someone huffs loudly behind him.

“David, you have to hit the microphone,” a female voice says. Patrick catches sight of the lower half of a floral print dress standing almost off-screen. 

“You just muted it!” the man snaps. 

“Stop touching things!” 

“ _You_ stop touching things.” 

“Um,” Patrick starts, clearing his throat. “I can hear you just fine.” 

The two people on the other side of the screen freeze and the woman bends down, pressing nearly cheek-to-cheek with Patrick’s 2pm. 

“Well, aren’t you just a button,” she says before the man physically elbows her out of frame. 

Patrick audibly swallows. So that’s new. What he’s feeling. “You must be David Rose,” he says, even though it says his name right there in the corner of his frame. “You bought the general store.” 

David’s eyes are wide and his skin is perfect. “ _Leased_. Leased the general store.” He inhales. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” Patrick clears his throat and shuffles the papers in front of him. Professionalism. “Ray said you need to file your incorporation papers?” He holds up the form in front of the screen and watches David nod. 

“That’s correct,” he says, making a face like a grimace. “For when all of this… ends.” 

Patrick’s smile softens. “Best to be prepared. So,” he clicks the pen in his hand and tries to emit an aura of reassurance, “why don’t we start with the name of the business.” 

“Oh, um, I’m oscillating between two names at the moment, so if we could just leave that one blank, that would be great.” 

Patrick grins while trying to look like he’s _not_ grinning. The tiny square on the right showing him his own face is both a blessing and a curse. He didn’t realize his expressions _said_ so much.

“Sure, sure. Give you more time to… oscillate.” 

“Ugh, David, I have Zoom algebra now!” the woman’s voice comes again from somewhere off-screen. 

“Oh my God, Alexis!” David snaps, looking beyond the computer. “There are, like, ten other rooms for you to choose from!” 

Patrick glances down at the next question and tries to muffle his laughter against his fist. “Um, business address?” 

David is still glaring off-screen until Patrick eventually hears a door open and close. He returns his focus to the camera and rolls the tension out of his shoulders. “Okay, so I’m working on that? Um, as you may be able to tell,” he flicks a hand vaguely around him, “I’m currently staying in a motel, and I think it might be confusing if I gave you the address to another business.” 

Well that explains the ‘ten other rooms’ comment _._ Ray gave him the run down but he didn’t actually _believe_ it all. 

“Yeah, for sure,” he says instead. “We’ll leave that blank as well. Battin’ a thousand here, David.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” is the reply, and the only way to describe Patrick’s current state of being is ‘charmed.’ 

He looks down at the paper again. “Hey, here’s an easy one. Brief description of the business.” His pen is poised over the form, ready to jot down whatever David throws at him. 

He should have known better. 

“Um, well, it’s a general store, but also a very specific store.” 

… “Huh.” 

“And it’s also not just a store,” David continues, hand gestures getting more pronounced the longer he talks, “it’s like a place where people can come and get coffee, um, or drinks when the world goes back to normal, but it’s not a coffee shop, nor is it a bar.”

Oh Patrick isn’t just charmed, he’s _smitten_.

“Okay,” he clicks the pen again, “so we’re pretty clear on what it’s not.” 

“Yeah, it’s an environment,” David snips as he clasps his hands in front of him, and Patrick can see how white his knuckles are even through the screen’s poor resolution. “And yes, we will be selling things, but it’s more like a branded immersive experience.” 

“Right, I love the buzzwords, David, but I do need to put something down here.” 

“Okay, you couldn’t use anything I just said?” Whatever insecurity he had has given way to impatience. 

Shit. “I’ll tell you what - Do you have access to a printer?” 

David scrunches his face. “Depends on how streaky you like your forms.” 

Patrick chuckles. “As long as I can see the answers. How about I upload these to you and you can fill them out when you have a clearer idea of what you want to do with your business.” 

“Okay, um, I do have a clear idea,” David says, and Patrick - because he just can’t help himself - replies: 

“Oh, so you’ve settled on a name then.” 

Jesus, Brewer. 

“Um, you’re either very impatient or extremely sure of yourself. And in a quarantine, I would think you’d need all the patience you can get.” 

He grins. “Threw you a bit of a changeup there, huh.” 

“Yeah, again, I don’t know what that means. I don’t play cricket.” 

Oh, oh no. He isn’t just smitten, he’s _done for_.

“Look, here’s my number and my email.” He types them both into the chat and uploads a pdf of the incorporation form. “I feel like you may need them.” 

David hums. “Mm, nope. I think I’m good.” He purses his lips. “But thank you so much.”

Patrick sees it for the dismissal it is. “It was nice to meet you, David.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Bye - ”

But David cuts out the video stream before Patrick can finish. The video, but not the audio…

Patrick finds himself grinning again. 

“How the fuck do I get outta this thing?”

xxxxxx

David didn’t know what claustrophobia felt like until his already tiny town got that much smaller. 

The Cafe is still open for takeout orders, which Thank _God_ , because they’d all starve if not. And his Dad has the keys to the office and therefore the other rooms so they can at least move about when the stir-craziness sets in. But with the motel closed to customers who don’t actually live there and Stevie under quarantine at her apartment, David must resort to the rather pedestrian method of calling to complain on a daily basis. 

“He was probably just trying to help,” Stevie offers, chomping through what David can only assume is the loudest chip in existence. 

“No, I mean, he was very snippy.” He paces the length of the Love Room, wishing he could stop seeing eyes the color of Bulleit bourbon, but they’re as persistent as a Jonas Brother after a brush-off. 

“We’re all allowed to get pissy these days,” she says, muffled through another handful of chips.

“My God, you’re like a disgusting woodland creature, hoarding away complex carbohydrates.” 

“Like you didn’t eat all of the leftover cinnamon rolls the _second_ Ronnie forced Roland to shut down the town,” she lobbies back. “Food and booze are my only company these days.” 

And, well, that’s fair. He never did gain the freshman fifteen thanks to a not-so-healthy dependence on speed, but he’s fully leaning into the quarantine fifteen experience. 

“I’m company,” he grumbles, just to be contrary, and she grunts like she disagrees with that assessment. 

“At least I’m not hoarding toilet paper,” she fires back and he glares. 

“Just because I happen to be living in a building that has access to nine other rooms and therefore nine other bathrooms, _plus_ a supply closet, does not make me a hoarder. Do you need toilet paper? I’ll give you toilet paper!” 

“I don’t need toilet paper, David.” It actually doesn’t seem like anyone is hoarding anything. Brebner’s is fully stocked, according to the Town Council newsletter. 

“Well, I found a joint under the bed in room two, so that was exciting.” 

She’s quiet for a second. “David, we’re literally living in a pandemic. Do you really want to light up something you found under a bed?” 

“Desperate times,” he mutters, and then he gets a notification for an incoming FaceTime from Stevie and he rolls his eyes, but switches over anyway to find her smirking wryly and holding one up as well. 

“Shall we?” 

He smokes up in Room Two because God forbid any of the fumes seep into his knits, and it’s all a little hazy after that. He vaguely recalls beginning a phone call with, “Hi David, it’s Patrick,” which is not his name. It might have involved his business plan? Which makes sense, given that he was calling Patrick, but he _also_ vaguely recalls saying, “Ciao” which shouldn’t be a part of his vocabulary at all, high or not. 

This is all Stevie’s fault. Naturally. 

Which is why he’s now back in Room Seven, staring into the screen of his laptop, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stares at the FaceTime icon on his computer. They’d met on Zoom last time, but David doesn’t know how to schedule a meeting and he’s _certainly_ not about to ask Alexis for help. Not after the conversation they just had: 

_“You need a haircut, David,” she murmured. “You look like a chia pet.”_

_“Oh my_ **_God_** _!”_

_She shrugged. “I can do it.”_

_“Over my dead body,” he snapped, patting down his pompadour from its above-average height._

_“Please, David. Serge Normant taught me, like, everything he knows.”_

So he (self-consciously) stares at the little green square with the white camera in the middle, audibly swallows his pride, and hits the number at the top of his call list, ignoring the fact that there’s a **(7)** next to the number of outgoing calls he placed to it. 

Patrick’s face appears on the screen a minute later, image grainy at first before the wifi kicks in properly and brings his (admittedly cute) features into sharper focus. 

“David Rose, to what do I owe the pleasure?” There’s far too much glee in his tone, and David swallows down a groan. 

“Um, so I messed up my form. And the printer ran out of ink. So I can’t get another,” he says, holding up his massacred attempt at Business 101. 

“Oh. Okay.” Patrick leans in close to look at David’s chicken scratch, before propping his cheek up on his hand and looking beyond the form at David’s face once more with a smile. The expression is… unsettling. 

“What?” He can feel his cheeks flushing and he really hopes the shitty motel lighting can hide it.

“Nothing, I just - uh - I’m so glad you made such good use of my phone number,” Patrick says, seemingly almost genuine. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. I was on another call.” 

“Well, best you didn’t.” 

“But I got all your messages.”

Fuck. “Ah, um, and just listened to the first one and then erased the rest?” 

“Oh, I listened to all of them. I kinda had to, to piece them together. Actually, I played them for my roommates.” He gestures behind him, to a room beyond that David cannot see. “I had the phone on speaker, so I had a lot of people weighing in.”

For fuck’s sake, how many roommates does he _have_? “Okay, um…”

“I’m just kidding,” he interrupts, chuckling. “I didn’t play them for anybody.” David opens his mouth, but Patrick keeps on rolling. “The good thing about the messages was that I was able to get enough information to fill out your forms.” 

“Oh.” His inbox pings with a new message from [ pbrewer86@gmail.com ](mailto:pbrewer86@gmail.com) containing a pdf. “I wish I could remember.” He clicks on the attachment and the form fills the frame - his dream described in succinct, but exciting detail in Patrick’s neat script. 

“It’s a good idea, your business. Rebranding local products and crafts is very inventive.” 

He’s flushing again. “Thanks.” 

“And I like the name. Rose Apothecary.” Patrick hand ghosts across the frame. “You know, it’s _just_ pretentious enough.” 

Hold up now. “Would we call that pretentious? Or... timeless?”

Patrick laughs and then yelps as a silver ball of fluff takes over the screen to lick his face. 

“Um, and who is this?” The dog turns at the sound of his voice and his tongue lolls out of his mouth as he sniffs at the screen. He’s… cute, actually. 

“Ah. Meet my roommate.” Patrick laughs a little self-consciously and David finds himself leaning closer. He thinks it’s a Weimaraner, with its sleek silver coat and almost-blue eyes, but he’s never actually been up close and personal with one before. He avoids… non-human living things. 

“Had a lot of opinions on my business, your roommate?” 

“The most - no, don’t lick, you lunatic. He’s not actually here,” Patrick admonishes, getting his arms around the dog and gently hauling him into his lap. He’s definitely too big to fit properly, but clearly don’t tell the dog that. “This is Indiana.”

David raises an eyebrow. “Like the state?”

Patrick smiles sheepishly. “Like Jones.” 

Okay, that’s entirely too fucking adorable. 

“Love Harrison Ford in a statement hat,” he hums, shoulders shimmying a little and, oh God, is he… _flirting?_ No. No way is this buttoned-up business major into him. Best not frighten him by knocking on the door to his heteronormativity. 

“I’ll call you if I hear something,” Patrick says, scratching behind Indiana’s ears, unaware of David’s internal meltdown. “And, hey, if I don’t get a hold of you, I’ll just...” he leans forward, light from the screen washing him out, and still making him look fucking delicious, “leave a message.” 

That… little shit. 

“Thanks,” David snaps, though it contains significantly less venom that he’d like it to. Luckily, he knows how to end a FaceTime call and he does so judiciously.

Without prejudice.

And only the slightest bit of regret.

xxxxxx

Patrick’s stack of post-its is getting lower and lower with every passing day, and he makes a note to place an order soon given that everything is taking longer than usual to arrive. 

Apparently not business licenses, though. He grins as he slides the piece of paper out of the cardboard envelope and eyes the metal frame he had ordered online last week that’s currently sitting on his kitchen table. It’s not protocol to buy a frame - it’s not like it’s part of the service, even though Ray seems to be a little _too_ friendly and accommodating sometimes - Still. 

Getting a business license is kind of a big deal, and even though they don’t come framed, well, perhaps they should. 

Or maybe they should just for David Rose. 

He carefully removes the frame’s backing and places the piece of paper behind the glass, securing it once more. 

“What do you think?” he asks, tilting the silver edge to show Indiana who’s curled in the corner of the couch he’s not supposed to be on, but the dog merely tilts his head and snuffs before going back to his bone. “Everyone’s a critic,” he mutters. 

And though Patrick certainly doesn’t take much stock in the opinion of his _dog_ , he does have a last-minute moment of hesitation.

A brief spike of panic. 

A vague notion of _What in the fresh hell are you doing?_

It’s nice! It’s a nice thing, and the world is currently a terrible place so he’s going to do this nice thing for this nice boy that he likes. 

The axis-tilting revelation that that seems to be is undercut by a voice hissing in his ear _What, are you twelve?_

It sounds remarkably like David. 

With a groan, he pulls up the contact for the man in question on his laptop and hits FaceTime before he can change his mind. Indiana rests his head on the back of the couch and watches Patrick pace in front of his kitchen table like the psycho he is. 

The call connects and David’s face fills the frame and Patrick thinks, not for the first time, just how goddamn gorgeous he is. 

“Patrick Brewer, to what do I owe the pleasure?” David parrots back to him, and Patrick smiles like he just can’t help it, leaning down over the table. 

“You got a minute?” 

David rolls his eyes. “Literally all I have is time.” 

Only then does Patrick notice the white background behind him, so different from the low-level motel lighting he’s gotten to know over the past couple of calls. “Are you at the store?” 

“Oh, um, yeah.” David looks around and from the wobbly camera work, Patrick can tell he’s on his phone instead of a computer. “Some vendors wanted to start shipping their products - everyone needs money these days - so I wanted to get them unpacked and sanitized before they started to pile up.” 

“That’s good,” Patrick replies, nodding encouragingly, although something niggles at the back of his mind. Concerns about overstock and product movement and front end costs in these uncertain times. 

“Um, is there something you needed?” David asks, voice going high. “Did you call to tell me that my business license request has been turned down or…?”

Patrick laughs and shakes his head, blaming the fluttering in his stomach on too much tea on a too-empty stomach. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Turns out that general but very specific stores are considered essential businesses. They fast-tracked you.” He holds up the empty shipping envelope and definitely _not_ the frame the license is currently sitting in. 

“Oh,” David whispers, blinking rapidly. Patrick can tell he’s moved and gives him a moment to process, but David tries to laugh it off. “Haven’t been fast-tracked since Tenjune opened in Meatpacking.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Patrick murmurs with a wry smile, and David downright _beams._

“Then now we’re even. How’s Indiana?” 

… Huh. He wouldn’t peg David Rose as a dog person. Or an animal person at all, really. An unfair assessment perhaps, though the expensive-looking wardrobe says otherwise. 

“Um, he’s good.” Patrick tilts the screen to show the couch, and the dog immediately perks up like the traitor he is. “Oh now you want to play. But when I needed to leave the park this morning, you sat right down and didn’t budge your 65 pounds one inch.” 

“You go to the park?” 

“Oh,” Patrick says, feeling caught. You’re _technically_ not supposed to go to the park these days. “Sometimes. He needs to be walked and we both get a bit antsy if we can’t move. We go early before most of the town is up, so social distancing is easy.” 

David hums and leans against what looks to be a counter. 

“What about you?” 

“Me?” David asks. “Oh I don’t really do the outdoors nor do I function before 10am, so I’m not really going to the park these days.” 

Patrick grins. “It’ll give me plenty of time to drop your business license off at the store before you get there then. Can’t be accidentally running into each other, even for the betterment of small businesses.”

“Right,” David murmurs, and Patrick wonders if it’s a combination of his overactive imagination and under-stimulated love life that makes him think he sees disappointment on David’s face.

xxxxxx

A package is waiting for David when he stumbles over from the Cafe the next morning, nursing the caramel macchiato he called ahead to order that Twyla left on the edge of the counter for him to pick up. 

It’s elegantly understated, leaning against the front door to the Apothecary, wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with a cream-colored string. In black sharpie on the front, it reads **D. Rose - Business Owner** in the same tidy script that filled out his incorporation form. Beneath it is a much smaller note that reads **(It’s been Lysoled)**.

He can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face, and he almost _wishes_ Schitt’s Creek was more populated so he’d be forced to wear a mask out in public that could hide this sentimentality from the world, but as it is, the street is deserted so he lets himself lean into the emotion. It’s ridiculous to crave joy like he does, but Alexis is hogging the motel’s shitty bandwidth and he can’t stream The Great British Bake Off, so he takes what he can get these days. 

Clearing his throat, he unlocks the front door of the Apothecary, sets the package down on the counter, and promptly douses himself with hand sanitizer. He hates that he didn’t think to pack the stash of nitrile gloves and medical masks he used when he deigned to fly commercial back in the day, but it wasn’t exactly at the top of his list of priorities as Revenue headed for his Balenciagas. 

Still, he appreciates that Patrick took the time and care to clean both the wrapping and probably license within it. The same can’t be said for the boxes of body milk and lip balm in the back. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his vendors, but well. He thinks he may trust Patrick more. 

The brown paper falls away to reveal a framed document, simple and austere, yet completely life-changing. He stares at it for a moment, then a moment more, before picking up his phone and pulling up Patrick’s name in his messages. They’ve never texted before, but if anything was going to break the ice, a string of high voicemails certainly would do the trick. He takes a picture and hits send before he can think too much about it: 

**_Thank you._ **

The reply is almost immediate: 

**[Patrick]**   
**You’re welcome.**

And then, because he’s a little shit but also genuinely curious, he follows up with: 

**_Did you pick out the frame?_ **

The ellipsis appears and disappears far too many times for the response that ends up coming through: 

**[Patrick]**   
**No, it came like that.**

**_Oh thank God. It’s a little too corporate for my taste._ **

Was that mean? No, it’s not mean. It’s not like Patrick picked out the frame. An ellipsis appears again: 

**[Patrick]**   
**I’ll let the higher-ups know.**

**_See that you do._ **

He thinks that’s the end of the conversation, since they’ve accomplished the purpose of the text and some gently teasing banter on top of it, but David’s phone vibrates on the counter just as he’s coming back in from hauling an armful of body milk so the cardboard boxes can remain by the backdoor. 

He sets them down on the counter and picks up his phone, brows furrowing. People barely initiate conversations with him, let alone continue them. Unless they want something. And there’s nothing he could have that Patrick Brewer could want. 

**[Patrick]**   
**So what arrived today?**

His lips pinch as he fights off a smile. 

**_Lip balms and body milk._ **

**[Patrick]**   
**… is there an expiration date on that?**

What?

**_… It’s milk._ **

**[Patrick]**  
 **Yes?**

**_For your body._ **

**[Patrick]**   
**David, is it perishable?**

**_Jesus Christ._ **

And so that’s how he passes an afternoon: hauling things from the back, wiping them down, applying labels, and using texts with Patrick as a kind of carrot at the end of the stick to get him through the task. 

Before he knows it, it’s nearly time for him to pick up dinner from the Cafe and he drags the broken-down boxes to the recycling, goes through his sanitizing routine for the millionth time that day, and rolls out his shoulders as he pulls his coat on once more. His phone has remained quiet for the last hour or so - Patrick is probably busy doing other things. Helping other people. 

David tries not to do something plebeian like get jealous. 

But it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t related to him. Or Stevie. He supposes he gets to say a “Hello” to Twyla when he picks up food or coffee from the Cafe, but that’s basically the extent of their conversation. For as lax as she was about health codes in the kitchen, she’s militant when it comes to preparing food during a pandemic. David appreciates that. 

He steps out onto the street and locks up, looking one last time through the window where his brand new business license sits above the counter, corporate frame and all. It makes his stomach flip for reasons outside of the realm of professionalism. 

And if the far-off sound of a dog barking makes him stop dead in the middle of the street and look into the distance, well. 

He tries not to examine too closely why. 

xxxxxx

“Just do it,” he mutters, pacing the length of his modest apartment and eyeing his computer like Tom Cruise in a Mission Impossible movie. On either side of the keyboard, his desk is piled with paperwork for which he’s not getting paid, and he’s thoroughly ignoring his dog who’s watching him appear and disappear beyond his bedroom door with bored disdain. 

He hits FaceTime before he can think better of it and then realizes how weird it would be if David answered while he was standing awkwardly out of frame, so he drops into the chair just as the call connects and David’s grainy (but beautiful) face appears on the screen. 

“Oh, hi,” David says, abruptly shoving what looks like a french fry that had been stuffed between his lips into his mouth. “Sorry, I thought you were Stevie.” 

“Oh. Is this a bad time?” And who the hell is Stevie? 

“No, no. Not bad at all,” David replies, promptly choking on the bite and spluttering through a cough. 

“Oh my God, chew your food, David,” a voice says. 

“Dive into an empty pool, Alexis,” he snaps, before returning his gaze to the screen. “My sister.” He sounds almost apologetic for his genetic lottery. 

“Hi, button!” she calls and Patrick laughs.

“Hi, David’s sister.” 

Her face appears on the screen over David’s shoulder and she offers a winning smile and what he thinks might be a wink. “And life coach. Alexis.” 

“Patrick. Nice to meet you.” 

“And that’s enough of _that_ ,” David says, shoving her out of frame once more, much like he did the first time they spoke. “You can’t have the license back.” 

Patrick smiles but reins in his laugh at the look of genuine panic on David’s face. “I’m not here for the license.” 

“Oh.” David grabs another handful of french fries, then seems to remember who he’s talking to and drops all but one, taking a much more dainty bite. “Is something wrong?” 

Patrick shakes his head and inhales deeply. “You know I’ve been thinking about all of this. And the products that you were telling me about earlier are actually really impressive. I mean, the whole model is actually very sustainable.” 

David looks like no one’s ever bothered to say that to him before. “Thank you.” 

Patrick shifts in his seat and leans forward, folding his arms on the desk. “Um, I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but I think you’re gonna need some more start-up money.” 

“Oh, more start-up money,” David blurts. “And where do you think I’ll get that money? The economy is literally tanking.” 

“Well, when you’re supporting local businesses, there are grants that you can apply for. And I would be happy to assist you with those applications. The government wants to help small businesses.” _And I want to help you,_ he very nearly says. 

David’s eyes look like they’ve gone glassy, but that also could be the glare from the screen. “Well that is very - um… very generous.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t be doing it for free.” David’s eyes go wide, so Patrick hurriedly continues. “See, if these grants came through, you’d have the money to start paying me.” 

Now he just looks thoroughly confused. “Okay, wait… you want to join my business?” 

Patrick shrugs in an attempt to appear nonchalant. He’s pretty sure he fails. “I really think you have something here, David. Something the world is going to need whenever it rights itself. You just - need a hand.”

David’s lips curve around a silent _oh._ “Um, yes, then. I am open to entertaining your investment offer.”

“Great,” Patrick beams, giving a surreptitious thumbs up to Indiana. As if the dog understands or even cares about _any_ of this at all. “Um, in the interest of us potentially working together, though, I did want to come clean about something.” 

David freezes. “Okay.” It breaks Patrick’s heart a little - the way David always seems to be braced for disappointment. 

“I, um, I actually picked out the frame.” He watches as the tension visibly drains from David’s body, shoulders sinking, eyes dancing. 

“I see. So thank you for making it very clear that I will be making the creative decisions for the store.” His hands are back to fluttering around and Patrick is mesmerized. “Um, and I guess you can handle all the business stuff.”

“I’m very comfortable with that.” 

David leans forward and Patrick finds himself doing the same, giddy at the prospect of this new venture. Terrified at whatever it is he’s feeling that makes him want to sing and throw up at the same time. 

“Um… you do know that if the grant money doesn’t come through, then I won’t - ” 

“Oh, I’m gonna get the money,” he says firmly before he even realizes he’s doing it. A vow if ever there was one. 

David’s lips part, and Patrick can’t help but flick his eyes to them, an exhale punching through the silence.

“Damn, David,” Alexis breathes from somewhere off-screen, and David manages an “Oh my _God_!” before abruptly ending the call. 

_Well_ , Patrick thinks, leaning back in his chair and willing his heart to return to its regularly scheduled programming. 

That was something.

xxxxxx

**[Stevie]**   
**Happy hour?**

David doesn’t know why she asks anymore. It’s become a daily occurrence. Sometimes they socially distance in the parking lot on the shitty plastic chairs, but if the weather’s bad or if his family is being particularly Rose-like, he just sneaks away to another room and they FaceTime over a bottle of wine.

Now, though, he’s at the store, elbow-deep in cat-hair scarves. 

**_It’s 2pm._ **

Though when has that ever stopped her?

**[Stevie]**   
**So?**

Precisely. 

**_I’m trying to be a responsible business owner. Stop being the devil on my shoulder._ **

**[Stevie]**  
😈

Still. 

**_I suppose I should test the wine. Make sure it’s drinkable._ **

**[Stevie]**   
**How “responsible” of you.**

He rolls his eyes and grabs one of the cabernets off the shelf, followed by one of the bottle openers handcrafted by a woodworker in Elm Glen. His phone rings with an incoming FaceTime call as he’s pouring the wine into the extra paper cup Twyla had given him because she ran out of sleeves that morning. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that it might be Patrick even though he _knows_ it’s Stevie. 

He leans the phone up next to the cash as he answers it and continues pouring.

“So how goes it?” Stevie asks, already propped up against her headboard, goblet of no-doubt cheap white wine in hand.

David picks up the phone and swings it around to show her the room. “It goes.” 

“Looks good.” 

It’s a hot mess, but he hums. “Getting there.” 

And then Stevie goes quiet and a quiet Stevie is a dangerous Stevie. “What ever happened with the snippy guy?” 

“Patrick,” he corrects before he can stop himself. Her eyes narrow and she latches onto the name like a shark to chum in the water. 

“Patrick, huh?” 

He didn’t tell her about his offer because the fewer people that knew, the less likely it was for word to get around that David Rose had failed at another business endeavor. Not enough money and no parental financial backing to secretly fall back on. 

“Yes,” he says when he realizes he’s been quiet for entirely too long. 

“Oh my God, look at your face,” she whispers. 

“Look at _your_ face,” he snaps. “What’s wrong with my face?” 

“It’s gone all… gooey.” 

“Ew!” He finally takes a sip of wine to settle his nerves - and pauses because, damn, that actually is quite good - but he needs to talk about this and he has no one else. “He wants to go into business with me.”

“Like ‘business?’ Or _business_.”

“Like he filled out grant applications to get more money so I can start paying him, and he’s already working on building a website so we can open asap.” 

“Oh,” Stevie says softly, all teasing gone from her tone. “That’s…” 

“Yeah.” He busies himself with labeling the toner, leaving the phone face up on the center table so all Stevie gets is a view of the ceiling. 

“You missed a spot.” 

“Shut up.” He takes another sip of wine and lets Stevie stew in her curiosity. 

“You _like_ him.” 

Okay, perhaps he let her stew too long. 

He leans over the phone solely to glare at her. “I barely know him. Also, he’s a business major who wears straight-leg, mid-range denim. He’s not into me.” 

Stevie leans forward and the light from the phone washes out her already ghostly complexion. “And how do you know what his jeans look like? These calls are usually only from the chest up, no?” She raises an eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. 

“He had to stand to pick up some forms. I saw the label.” 

“I bet that’s not all you saw,” she replies, and the blush that immediately stains his cheeks is as damning as Patrick’s ass in those pants. 

“You’re the worst,” he groans, taking another sip and blaming the flush creeping up the back of his neck and making the collar of his sweater stick to his skin on the wine. 

And of course his phone chimes with an incoming text, **Patrick Brewer** flashing on the screen. In his haste to grab it, he knocks over a bottle of toner and doesn’t even bother to pick it up. 

“I take it it’s not from Alexis,” Stevie laughs and he minimizes her face so he can get to the text, but unfortunately, it does nothing to mute the cackling of her voice. 

A picture comes through: a shitty photo of an email with a bunch of blurry words, but the one he makes out - the one Patrick made sure to have in focus - reads simply **APPROVED.**

His phone chimes with another text and he bites his lip as he exits out of the photo to read it. 

**[Patrick]**   
**Hey, partner.**

“David?” Stevie’s eventually says. 

“Hm?” He’s ruined. 

“There goes your face again.” 

xxxxxx

David isn’t one to initiate conversations, Patrick is noticing, unless he has a specific question about the store. Given the state of the world, Patrick is doing all of his share of the business remotely: getting the books in order, logging the inventory David counts during the day, sending preliminary website templates for David’s vehement veto. And though they communicate on a daily basis now, it’s usually via text or a quick call. Patrick finds he misses seeing him, at least through a screen, and he’s running out of reasons to reach out. 

_Just ‘cause_ doesn’t seem to be enough. 

His phone vibrates on the coffee table and he curses because he was supposed to call his parents earlier and this is probably his mother lovingly berating him - but **David Rose** is the name he finds on the screen. 

Patrick quickly sits up, jostling Indiana who lets out a noise of protest, and mutes the Jays re-airing he had been watching while moping about the loss of baseball. 

**[David]**   
**Is this what Mr. Darcy felt like at the Netherfield Ball?**

Patrick snorts as he reads the text and, though he understands the reference, he hasn’t read _Pride and Prejudice_ since high school, so he’s a little rusty on what Mr. Darcy’s exact feelings were at the Netherfield Ball. 

He can guess, though. 

**_Bored?_ **

**[David]**   
**You have no idea.**

And, well, he’d been looking for an excuse. Maybe David just gave him one. 

“What do you think?” he asks the dog, who exhales in exasperation and drops his head back in Patrick’s lap. “Agreed.” He hits FaceTime and adjusts his wayward, overly-long hair in the screen as the call attempts to connect. 

David answers looking softer and more rumpled than Patrick has ever seen him, wearing a white t-shirt with a large **DON’T** emblazoned across the chest that Patrick tries not to take as a sign. 

“Hi,” he greets, subconsciously scratching Indiana’s ears to keep from fidgeting nervously. 

“Hey,” David replies with a small smile. 

“Is that my button?” Alexis asks and David rolls his eyes, even as his cheeks flush. 

Interesting.

“He’s not your anything, Alexis.” He looks into the phone. “Hang on, give me a minute.” 

“Take your time,” Patrick says with a small laugh as Alexis makes an annoyed sound in the background. 

The camera bounces as David walks - Patrick hears the opening and closing of a door - before the view from the now-upside phone goes from grey carpeting to slate concrete. He can see David’s black Uggs taking hurried steps, before another door opens and more grey carpeting fills the screen. He’s glad he’s not prone to motion sickness. Finally the phone flips back around and David’s face looks sheepish and tense and a dozen other emotions that flicker by too quickly for Patrick to pinpoint. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he assures. 

David gestures behind his head. “As you might have guessed, I live with my sister.” 

Patrick grins. “I sort of gathered that when I filled out your incorporation papers.” 

He grimaces. “No I mean, like, my sister and I literally share a room. Twin beds.” 

“David, I know.” 

“... you do?” 

He nods. “I still do occasional work for Ray. I got the lowdown on the Rose family before I even unpacked my car.” He leaves the footnote about working for Rose Video out of the conversation.

“And yet you still went into business with me.” 

“Easiest decision of my life.” 

Oh. That was - not what he was expecting to leave his mouth. 

“Yes, well.” David visibly swallows. “Her hair is all over the place. I swear she probably sheds more than your dog.” 

Patrick makes a face of mock affront. “Excuse you, Indiana does _not_ shed.” He looks down and the dog licks his chin. “Much.” 

“At least he’s cuter than Alexis,” David says and Patrick laughs. 

“I think some people would disagree with you.” 

David’s eyebrow raises, almost in a challenge. “Would you?” 

Patrick freezes, put on the spot. “David, are you asking me if I find your sister attractive?” Oh this is… this is dangerous ground to trod upon. 

Now it’s David’s turn to freeze. “Um… maybe?” 

Patrick’s at a loss. “I mean - she’s beautiful - ” he starts but David is already nodding, as if Patrick has said all he needs to hear. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone had gone through me to get to Alexis.” 

Oh absolutely _not_. “David, I’m gay,” he states, and it takes him a full five seconds of resounding silence to realize it’s the first time he’s ever said those words out loud.

“Oh.” 

He inhales. And exhales. “Yeah.” And the world hasn’t shaken apart.

“Well, in the interest of full disclosure,” David continues, voice soft, expression fond, “I’m pansexual.” 

He’s never really heard the term, but he studied Latin. He can make an educated guess. 

“It’s nice to meet you, David Rose,” he murmurs and David bites his lips. 

“Likewise, Patrick Brewer.” They stare at each other for a moment that stretches - charged and momentous and yet absolutely mundane. Just - life. “I feel like this deserves a toast.” 

“Agreed,” Patrick croaks, only too happy for a beer to blame his blush on. Indiana yelps as he stands quickly and makes his way to the fridge, keeping the phone screen in his peripheral vision. “What about you?” 

“Oh I keep wine in here.” 

“Your secret stash?”

David hums as he opens the closet. “Away from Alexis’ unmanicured paws.” He holds up the bottle of red wine for Patrick to see as well as the lone glass he pilfered from the Cafe. “I come in here and FaceTime with Stevie.” 

Ah, the elusive Stevie. “Who’s Stevie?” he asks, attempting to sound semi-casual and nonchalant. 

“Oh, she’s - well. She’s my ex? Sort of?” David grimaces, like he’s apologetic. “But I guess she’s my best friend.” 

An anchor lands in the pit of Patrick’s stomach. “You guess?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. I’ve never had one before.” 

“Oh.”

“I know. You don’t need to tell me how pathetic that is.” 

But he doesn’t because he thinks of Rachel, the one best friend he had, and how badly he hurt her. “I don’t really have one either. Not anymore, anyway.” 

David hums, like he knows there’s a story there, and they each take a drink to fill the silence. “I’m sore from hauling those boxes. Though I guess it’s the only exercise I get these days. Besides the occasional yoga session on YouTube.” 

Patrick settles back on the couch and Indiana plops back down on his lap. “I get bored doing yoga. I hike in the evening if I have time. Otherwise, it’s just the park with this one.” He adjusts the phone to show Indiana already snoozing, and when he brings the screen back up, David’s face is soft and beautiful, which causes Patrick to blurt out, “I could help out at the store. So, you know, you’re not so sore.” Was that a come on? Possibly? Roll with it. 

David raises an eyebrow. “You can’t come help. Shelter-in-place and socially distance, etc.” 

“Then let’s at least take turns,” he offers. “I’ll take mornings. You take afternoons.” 

“You know me too well.” 

“Non-functioning before 10am. I remember.” He grins. “We’ll switch in the afternoon and thoroughly wipe down every surface before we go.” That doesn’t sound needy, does it? He really does just want to pull his weight. Sure, he’s contributing remotely, but David’s been doing the grunt work. And from what Patrick knows of him, grunt work is not exactly David’s forte. 

“Okay,” David whispers. “That sounds… Doable. Responsible.” 

“Good,” Patrick grins, raising his beer bottle. “To your good health.” 

“To yours.” 

They talk about everything and nothing for an hour. 

It’s the best 60 minutes Patrick’s had in months. 

xxxxxx

But the next day, and the day after, David tells Patrick not to come in. 

First it was because he drank too much wine the night before, completely forgot about their arrangement, and showed up anyway. The second time was because he had forgotten to wipe down the counter before he left. Being the only one who, up until that point, used the space, he was more focused on cleaning the outside products coming in. By the third day, he finally had to maybe admit that he was nervous to let Patrick into this sacred space. To share this thing he had built even though Patrick was already very much a part of making his dream a reality.

It’s not that he didn’t trust him. Or that he doubted his sanitizing habits. But - 

What if Patrick came in, saw what David had done so far, and regretted his decision? What if they differed on how to display toner and he messed it all up? What if he did neither of those things and was helpful and perfect and David fell even harder than he already was? 

It’s been five days of Patrick taking mornings and David taking afternoons, and David is rapidly coming to the conclusion that the latter is his problem of choice. Which is really fucking typical, all things considered. And it’s not helping his stress levels in the slightest. 

The news is gloom and doom and Stevie sent him an article about small businesses going under because she’s a monster and Alexis is trying to help with all of her newfound economics “knowledge” and, basically, David is one veiled barb away from a full-blown emotional breakdown. 

He needs someone to talk him down from the ledge, and he’s pretty sure there’s only one person in this entire zip code up to the task:

“David?” 

Patrick’s voice is like a balm, but when did he put the phone to his ear? He barely remembers pulling up his contact. 

“David? You okay?” He sounds worried now, which is silly. No one ever worries about David Rose. “David, where are you?” 

“Why am I doing this?” he finally chokes out. 

“What?” 

“This is the most insane time to start a business - ” 

“David - ”

“I’ve only ever failed before.”

“That’s not true - ”

“I can’t do this.” 

His phone chimes with an incoming FaceTime request, and he knows he looks like something out of _Death Becomes Her_ from his black beanie to his black Uggs, but he answers it anyway, Patrick’s brown eyes looking at him steadily and compassionately. 

“Breathe, David,” he says firmly. “Look at me.” 

David does. 

David couldn’t look away if he tried. 

“Nice and slow. In and out.” 

His ears are ringing and his vision is starting to blur, but he can feel his uneven heartbeat wrestling itself into submission at Patrick’s calm and constant command. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “In… and out…” 

David complies and lets his legs give out, dropping him unceremoniously onto the bed. 

“Where are you? Are you home?” 

_Home_. He nearly scoffs. What a novel concept that would be. 

“Room Two,” he manages, bending forward and putting his head between his knees, not caring in the slightest that it probably gives Patrick a stunning view of the stained motel ceiling. 

Patrick doesn’t comment though; merely offers a calm, “Keep breathing, that’s it.” 

David should find it annoying, this placation, but Patrick’s voice is cutting through the panic like a boat through a wave. 

“Keep breathing,” Patrick whispers again. 

“Keep talking,” David quietly replies. 

“Hey, look. We’ve started building the website. When everything is ready, we can do curbside pickups. They’re letting people do that. We’ve gotten a lot of traction from the newsletter Town Council sent out. A lot of good feedback so far.” 

David suddenly sits back up, sending his head spinning once more. “Oh my God, I didn’t get the insurance.” 

“David. I did.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a little shrug. “I called them the other day.” 

“Where did you come from?” But before Patrick can teasingly answer that rhetorical question, David is tumbling down another stress spiral. “Fuck! I didn’t call the electrician either!” 

Patrick smiles. “When you get to the store tomorrow, flick the lights on.”

David stares at him. “You didn’t.” 

“Oh I did,” he says lightly. “Can’t guarantee how well they’ll work, but at least I only electrocuted myself twice. And hey, we may start an electrical fire, but now we have insurance to cover it.” 

David wonders what factory Patrick Brewer was made in and if this… this competence is his default setting, or if someone molded him to be the upstanding, business-savvy, adorable troll David has come to know and - like. 

“Feel better?” Patricks asks, and startlingly, David nods. He does, in fact. “Good.” Then his eyes flick up to David’s hairline and he grins. “What’s, uh, what’s with the hat? You cold?” 

David grumbles. “I need a haircut.”

Patrick laughs and runs a hand through his own curls. “Don’t we all.” 

_Don’t you dare,_ he almost blurts. Instead, he says, “My sister keeps offering but I’d really rather not look like Zsa Zsa Gabor’s poodle.” 

“Aw, come on, a perm would look good on you - Shit,” he mutters all of a sudden, running over to his kitchen and turning the burner down on a skillet.

They can revisit the perm comment later. And they will be. Vociferously. 

“Are you… cooking?” Patrick nods and stirs something, and David watches him work. “It’s a little late for dinner,” he teases and Patrick flashes a grin. 

“I went for a hike this evening. It went longer than I thought.” 

Patrick props the phone up on the counter, stepping back to pull something from the fridge, and only then does David notice that he’s wearing pajamas - plaid flannel pants and a threadbare grey t-shirt with faded lettering on the front. It’s the first time David has seen him in something other than a button-down, which is… something. Endearing, maybe? Sexy, definitely. He did _not_ know those biceps were hiding under those cotton blends.

“What are you making?” he asks, clearing his throat. 

“Pasta. Penne with sausage in a tomato cream sauce specifically.” 

God _damn_ , that sounds delicious. 

David inhales deeply and, for the first time in long while, feels like his lungs aren’t being rung out to dry. “Can you talk me through it?” 

Patrick pauses and looks into the camera. “Sure, David.” He says his name like it’s a gift. 

So he does. He explains how he browned the sausage with onions and garlic and poured white wine over it and brought it to a boil. David watches him empty a can of diced tomatoes into the pan and let it simmer as he boils a pot of water for the pasta. It’s soothing, the careful steps Patrick goes through. The way he measures out the heavy cream and adds the parsley, salt, and pepper, before cooking the penne and tossing it all together with parmesan. 

“My mom used to make this for me. It’s become my comfort food go-to.” 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” David says, telling himself it’s not disappointment he sees on Patrick’s face. “And sorry about - well. Just sorry. This isn’t what you signed up for when you joined this business.” 

Patrick picks the phone up from the counter so he can look at it dead on. “Yes it is.” 

David’s face warms and he glances up in an effort to keep his eyes from watering. “Goodnight, Patrick.” 

“Goodnight, David.” 

He pads back to Room Seven, feeling emotionally exhausted and surprisingly hungry as he collapses face first on his bed, letting the phone drop to the pillow next to him. The shower is running and he thanks a higher power for small mercies. He can’t handle Alexis at the moment. 

Not ten minutes later, though, his phone vibrates with a text, startling him from the doze he had drifted off to. 

**[Patrick]**   
**Wasn’t sure which room was yours.**

He frowns, reading it again, before slowly standing and making his way to the door, heart in his throat. He pulls it open, looking up and down the sidewalk and shivering a little in the cool evening air, but he doesn’t see anyone - oh.

There, on the little table between the office and Room Five, is a tupperware container, steam from the pasta escaping beneath the lid. He pads closer and sees the blue post-it note taped to the top, scribbled once again with black sharpie: **It’s been Lysoled ;)**

His head snaps up in time to see taillights pulling out of the parking lot, and he puts his hand over his heart in thanks on the off-chance Patrick looks in the rearview mirror as he drives away.

xxxxxx

After that, they FaceTime every night, filling each other in on the day and going through the list of tasks to complete the following as Patrick cooks and David eats his takeout in Room Two. Sometimes David gets shanghaied into dinner with his family, which just means they either talk earlier, as David walks home, or later, after Patrick gets back from his hike. 

It’s become just another part of his routine, another step written out on a blue post-it, getting him through all of the mundane tasks that have come before it.

He opens the Apothecary door and immediately sanitizes his hands, placing his travel mug full of tea on the counter and smiling at David’s blatantly disastrous attempt to put together the cash register. He had warned Patrick that it wasn’t pretty and, sure enough, it’s a bit of a hot mess. But it’s nothing he can’t handle. 

The first time he came to the store, he froze in the doorway, jaw slack at the progress David had made so far. 

**_Wow, David._ ** he had texted, and David had clearly been waiting by the phone despite the early hour because he immediately texted back: 

**[David]**   
**Wow good or wow bad?**

**_I think you already know the answer to that._ **

He also noticed the supposedly too-corporate frame hanging proudly on the wall behind the counter. He took a picture of it, telling himself it was so he could tease David about it later, but he never did. He tries not to examine too hard why.

He gets to work untangling the cords and loses an hour to the manual accompanying the register. Patrick always makes sure to be out by 1pm so David can arrive by 1:30 -

Which is why he jumps nearly a foot in the air as a knock sounds on the door just before 12pm.

There’s a woman standing outside - dark hair, pale skin - waving through the windowed door like she knows him. Patrick doesn’t recognize her, though, but then, he doesn’t really recognize anyone outside of his clients and Twyla at the Cafe. 

He walks over and flips the lock, and the woman waits until he’s stepped far enough back for social distance protocol before opening the door. 

“Hi, we’re not open yet,” he starts, but the woman waves an arm and her too-large flannel shirt slides down over her hand. 

“Oh I know. But David won’t let me take a look so I thought I might have better luck with you.” 

Wait. “... Stevie?” 

Her eyes light up in a way that’s entirely too devious for barely noon on an unsuspecting Wednesday. “I see my reputation precedes me.” 

He smiles, genuine curiosity and penchant for sass warring with his desire to make a good impression on David’s best friend. “Something like that.” 

He wonders why David is keeping her away (other than the global pandemic, obviously). He wonders if it’s the same reason he kept Patrick away for days despite the fact that the business is now part his. 

He watches her make her way around the store, careful not to touch anything, clearly trying to temper her pride in her friend with an aloofness that Patrick doesn’t buy for a second. She pauses by the far wall and leans down, squinting to read the label on one of the body milks. 

“Um, shouldn’t this be refrigerated?” 

“Thank you!” he blurts out, gesturing wildly. “I mean - no, but I think you just helped me win an argument, so…” 

“Oh anything to help David lose,” she replies, continuing to move around the room but spending more time studying him than the merchandise. 

He feels as on display as the bath bombs on the center table, but he lets her look (despite the fact that she’s failing at doing so surreptitiously) and tries not to think about what David has said about him to her.

Stevie is David’s best friend, but also his ex. ‘Sort of,’ David had said. Looking at the woman in front of him, and how different she is from Patrick, makes him slightly nauseated. Maybe - maybe he’s misread the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) hints David has been throwing his way. 

“He really made something here,” she marvels quietly, before remembering she actually has an audience. “And if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll make sure they never find your body.” 

Patrick laughs and holds up his hands before shoving them into his pockets. “Like I need to give David more ammunition that he’s almost always right. His head will be as big as his hair.” 

She pauses by the center table and crosses her arms, studying him. “I like you.” 

He swallows. She’s honestly slightly terrifying. “I’m glad.” 

She opens her mouth but a sound doesn’t escape, and he fidgets because he has a feeling he knows what’s coming. 

“And it’s only because I like you that I’m about to say what I’m about to say,” she begins. “If I didn’t - ”

“Let me guess: they’d never find my body?” 

“Fast learner.” But their easy banter sobers quickly and she looks at the floor, fiddling with a loose button on her cuff. “Look, David is - He’s…” she groans and shakes her arms like she’s trying to loosen sentiment’s grip. “He’s been... burned in the past. Not just by romantic partners. In business as well.” 

Patrick stays still. He barely breathes. He had guessed as much, going by little snippets of quips and put-downs David would let slip over the course of their conversations. He’d sent Patrick photos he took of the merchandise for the website with a caption that read, **Screw you, Sebastien** _._ When Patrick asked who Sebastien was, David replied, **No one** _._ He had never outright asked David because he didn’t think it was his place. If David wanted him to know, he’d tell him in his own time. But now here his best friend is doing it for him - not everything, but enough - and Patrick thinks he knows why:

“Stevie, is there a question you’d like to ask me?” 

“Are you in this?” comes immediately, her gaze hard and steady, all previous hesitation gone. 

“Wholeheartedly,” he replies, and he doesn’t just mean it by its Oxford Dictionary definition of complete sincerity and commitment. He means it exactly the way it sounds: 

With his whole heart. 

Because that’s what he’d give David if he asked for it - along with his knowledge of business law, tax write-offs, and excel spreadsheets. He thinks he’s maybe given it to him anyway, despite his best efforts, without the question ever crossing his lips. 

They’ve never even breathed the same air. 

He’s not sure what his face is doing, but something changes in Stevie’s. The hard look that had previously graced her features is gone and in its place, something soft and fond and maybe a little sad. But he blinks and it’s gone. 

“He’d kill me if he ever knew I came here,” she says. “Not _here_ , but if he ever knew…” _I said that._

He gets as close as social distance standards allow, placing his hand over his heart, much like David had done outside the motel just over a week ago. “It’s our secret.”

She nods and fights off a smile as she turns to go. “It really does look good,” she says over her shoulder as she opens the door. “Do you think I should text him and ask if I can drink the body milk?” 

“Oh I wish you would,” he replies, and her smile turns devious once more.

“We’re gonna have so much fun, Brewer.” 

His answering laugh harmonizes with the newly installed bell over the door, but he stays rooted to the hardwood floor long after she disappears around the corner. 

Stevie would not have come here had David not said things; things about him, about _them,_ in whatever context the circumstances might allow. 

The thought lingers through the rest of his shift, through register-setup and counter wipedown. It follows him home, like a persistent cloud on a stormy day, but it’s not dreary. 

Patrick’s always loved the rain. 

When he gets home just after 1:15pm to start some work for Ray, he texts David a photo of the scene that greeted him when he walked in the door: Indiana sitting just inside, toy in mouth as an offering, tail a silver blur behind him as it wags. 

**_I think Indiana is going through withdrawal._ **   
**_He’s gotten used to having me around constantly._ **

The answering ellipsis appears immediately. 

**[David]**   
**No. Don’t even think it.**

He grins, because he’s the worst, as he toes off his shoes and plops down on the couch, holding out an arm so the dog can lean into his side. 

**_Think what, David?_ **

**[David]**   
**Patrick, dogs in a retail environment are incorrect.**

**_But look how cute._** he sends back, accompanied by a short video of Indiana downright _smiling_ as Patrick scratches his head. 

**[David]**   
**INCORRECT.**

But before he can reply, another text comes through: 

**[David]**   
**No matter how cute they may be.**

“See, buddy?” Patrick grins, letting Indiana lick his chin. “We’re winning him over.” 

xxxxxx

David doesn’t know how many times he looks at the video. 

He’s not a dog person. Hell, he’s not even an _animal_ person, and yet he glances at it as he marvels over Patrick’s job on the register, as he only slightly judges his stocking of the shampoo and conditioner (laid out to David’s precise specifications), and as he wipes down the counters in preparation for Patrick’s arrival the following morning. 

It takes him until he’s walking through the door of the motel room, bag of takeout from the Cafe in hand, before he realizes that the reason he likes the video so much is not necessarily the adorable dog fucking _smiling_ at him. It’s the two second snippet of Patrick giggling in the background that has him hitting play enough times to rival his hit count on Beychella.

Oh _fuck_ this is a _disaster_. 

He and Patrick have a good working relationship. And after his little meltdown the other night, he’d like to think they have a good friendship, too. 

He doesn’t want to ruin that. 

He’s quiet throughout dinner, having heard his mother’s story about The Great Wig-Snatch of 1988 enough times to nod and hum in all the right places. His dad doesn’t seem to notice, hanging onto his mother’s every word, but Alexis continually eyes him like the annoyingly prescient sister she is when she’s not being completely self-absorbed. Which, admittedly, isn’t often, but her timing to clue back in and realize the world doesn’t revolve around her is always fucking impeccable. 

“What is going on with you?” she hisses, poking him in his side and he slaps her hand before she can pull it back.

“Kids,” his dad offers tiredly - they’re all tired these days despite not doing much of anything - so David returns to his rubbery chicken and Alexis miraculously leaves him alone for the rest of the meal. 

He escapes to Room Two and pours another glass of wine from his stash, flicking through the meager offering of channels before sitting up straight and nearly sloshing wine all over himself. He grabs his phone and fires off a text to Patrick because he needs to share this with someone and it sure as hell won’t be Stevie or Alexis. 

**_Quick. Notting Hill is on TV._ **

Patrick’s reply is immediate. And thoroughly regretful: 

**[Patrick]**   
**Is that the one with Meg Ryan?**

**_OH MY GOD._ **

**[Patrick]**   
**I’m kidding. I know it’s Julia Roberts.**

Jesus Christ. 

**_Thank God. I was about to have to rethink this entire partnership._ **

But Patrick is oddly silent. Oh. Oh no.

**_You HAVE seen it, right?_ **

**[Patrick]**   
**...**

**_OH MY GOD._ **

He slams the call button without even second-guessing himself, which is the first time that’s happened so far in their partnership/relationship/friendship/ship. He doesn’t even give Patrick a chance to greet him once the call connects, merely blurting out, “Um, what do you mean you’ve never seen Notting Hill?” 

“David, I realize that vital information like this probably should have come up when I offered to prepare your grant applications, but the interview process was a little lacking.” 

“Turn on channel 26, for fuck’s sake.” 

“Language, David,” he jokingly scolds, but he clearly doesn't realize that Julia Roberts at her 90s rom-com height of power is not something to be trifled with. 

“Patrick.”

“David.” 

“Channel 26.” 

Patrick’s sigh gusts over the phone, but David hears the echo of Hugh Grant explaining the purpose of a travel book shop through the speaker when he gets there. And suddenly, it’s not enough just to have Patrick’s voice. He switches over to FaceTime and Patrick chuckles in his ear. 

“What, a call wasn’t enough?” 

“I want to see your face when Hugh Grant sweeps Julia Roberts off her feet.” Was that creepy? It sounded creepy. 

“Okay, David.” He can hear Patrick’s smile as he accepts the incoming call, and then it’s there for real, soft and lopsided and more than a little fond. “So bring me up to speed on what I’ve missed.” 

Thankfully they’re just at the start so David does so speedily, before hushing and ignoring how comfortable the quiet is. He’s never met a silence he hasn’t tried to fill. 

Suddenly Patrick groans, and David looks at the phone to see that Indiana has jumped up on his lap and is currently turning in a circle (despite the limited real estate) before plopping down comfortably. 

“Ya good?” Patrick asks the dog sarcastically who sneezes in return. “Thanks, bud.” Then he looks at David who tries to school his face into something slightly less disgusted but charmed. “Thinks he’s the size of a chihuahua.” 

“We’re all guilty of that,” he replies. “Just ask my ex who broke up with me because his Masanori Umeda chair broke when I sat on it.”

Patrick’s face does something weird then - like it shutters, open expression closing off. Turning sad. Oh that won’t do at _all_. 

“In my defense, the thing was very poorly taken care of. A stiff wind would have shaken it right apart,” he says flippantly and Patrick manages a smile, but it’s a poor imitation of the real thing. 

Damn. 

Before he can spiral too badly about his attempt at levity-gone-wrong, his phone chimes in his hand and he looks down to see Stevie’s name in the push notification. 

“Ugh, what do you want?” he mutters.

“Sorry?” Patrick asks and David waves a hand. 

“Oh, not you. Stevie is texting.” 

Patrick’s face goes on another journey then, from worried to sheepish to mischievous, which David supposes is better than the whole ‘kicked puppy’ vibe he had a moment ago. And when David switches from FaceTime to his messages, he thinks he knows why:

**[Stevie]**   
**I like him.**

It takes him a second longer than it should to realize who she’s talking about. 

**_What? Why do you like him? Why do you KNOW him?_ **

**[Stevie]**   
**Can I drink the body milk?**

Oh that _bitch_. 

“David?” Patrick asks, concern coloring his tone, and he flips back over to FaceTime, staring at that button-faced man (because when Alexis is right, she’s right) accusingly. 

“Stevie came to the store?” The decibel of his voice fucking skyrockets, and Patrick’s eyes widen, probably at the panic cracking David through another octave. Indiana’s head pops up and he sniffs at the phone. 

“David, it’s fine - ”

“What did she say? What did she _do_?”

“She stopped by for all of five minutes. Introduced herself. Looked around. Joked about the body milk.” 

There’s something Patrick isn’t saying, though. David’s only played poker once, but he can spot a bluff like a Louis Vuitton knockoff. 

“She really liked the store, David,” Patrick says softly, and David is mortified to find a lump in his throat. 

“Stevie doesn’t like anything,” he manages, but that’s not strictly true. 

_I like him._

Jesus. 

He stares at the TV, at Hugh Grant rambling about _Horse and Hound_ , and wonders why he’s kept everyone at arm’s length. He knows why he’s kept his family away - there’s a thread of common sense and self-preservation even the dumbest of people have - but Stevie didn’t need to be lumped in with them.

Patrick either. 

Speaking of, the man in question has remained silent throughout this little revelation, and when David looks down at the phone, Patrick is carefully watching the TV, amused embarrassment at the on-screen proceedings not quite enough to mask the fact that he’s still tuned in to everything David is doing. To everything he isn’t saying. 

And then he goes and fucking _knee-caps_ him: 

“Stevie’s great, David. I can see why she’s your best friend.” 

He laughs wetly, because what else can he do? He went his whole life not having anyone - not really - to getting these two idiots who seem to actually, genuinely care. 

Patrick continues to carefully watch the television, giving David his moment, and David uses it to study the curve of Patrick’s lips and the errant cowlick at the crown of his head. Indiana shuffles up the cushion to lick at Patrick’s ear, and Patrick looks down as the dog looks up, doleful eyes absolutely melting David’s supposedly hardened heart. 

“Hi,” Patrick murmurs, and the dog sighs contentedly in reply, placing his head on Patrick’s shoulder. To be fair, it looks like a very comfortable shoulder. 

David could get used to this. Not quarantine, absolutely fucking not - but this: quiet movie nights and a person to spend them with. Maybe, possibly even a dog to cuddle. 

“Patrick - ” 

“Yeah, I know,” he chuckles. “Dogs in a retail environment are still incorrect.” 

It wasn’t what he was going to say - not at all, in fact - but he stays quiet. 

Patrick looks into the phone with a lopsided smile. “Next time, we’re watching Raiders of the Lost Ark. It’s only fair, seeing as we’re barring Indiana Jones II from the store.” 

“Mm, we’ll see,” David replies, suppressing a grin. 

He definitely doesn’t start googling eco-friendly dog beds that night. Or how to remove dog hair from hand-wash only cashmere.

And he _definitely_ ignores Stevie when she texts him just before bed: 

**[Stevie]**   
**I like this for you.**

xxxxxx

They watch _Raiders_ , much to Patrick’s delight and David’s only mild disdain. 

He agrees to _You’ve Got Mail_ in exchange for _Temple of Doom_ and _While You Were Sleeping_ for _Last Crusade._ Alexis joins for _When Harry Met Sally_ on the condition that she not utter a sound. She breaks the rule more times than Patrick can count, but David eventually stops snapping at her, and Patrick gets the privilege of watching Alexis’ repeated attempts to cuddle and David’s ultimate caving under the pressure. All in all, it’s been a productive week. 

He’s about to pull his mom’s lasagna from the oven so he can call her later and tell her how badly he butchered it. He owes her a call. 

He owes her many, to be honest. 

The heat from the oven makes his face flush, and he grabs the sides of the pan with the grey mitts his parents gave him as he pulls it from the rack. His phone blares its factory-set ringtone, and he curses as the hot dish slips and he burns the inside of his forearm in his haste to set it down on top of the stove. 

The microwave tells him it’s not even 7:30pm and he promised he’d call at 8pm. Marcy Brewer is nothing if not punctual - she wouldn’t call him early unless something was wrong - and sure enough, he glances over and it’s David’s name lighting up the screen.

He hits **Accept** and puts him on speaker, closing the oven door with a kick and running cold water over his arm as Indiana presses against his leg. 

“David - ” but before he can ask him to hold on for a second, David is steamrolling over him. 

“Patrick, did you know that Indiana Jones is, in fact, named after a dog?” 

He pauses. “Um, I did, actually."

“No, but like, both in the movie _and_ in real life.” David is so excited, he sounds like one of those wind-up toys, chattering across the table. “He’s named after George Lucas’ Alaskan Malamute!” 

Clearly he’s been at the Wikipedia. “Who was also the inspiration for Chewbacca.” 

… “What the fuck is a Chewbacca?”

Patrick barks out a laugh. “Okay, next movie night: Star Wars.” 

“Absolutely not,” David retorts. “There are only so many things I’ll do for young, hot Harrison Ford and sci-fi is not one of them.” 

“Fair enough.” He dries his hands on a dish towel and inspects the red mark on his arm. It isn’t too bad. “You’ll miss him in those tight blue pants, though.” 

David chuckles, low and knowing. “I knew you had a thing for blue.” 

Two months ago, that would have made Patrick freeze in fear - the thought of being known - but now, it just makes him pause with a wry smile. “How the hell do you know that?” 

“Patrick, how many Zooms and FaceTimes have I seen you on now? Literally, from the chest up, you’re every color of the indigo rainbow.”

His mother has said something similar. It frightens him when he thinks about how well they’d get along. 

“Guess you’ll just have to help me expand my wardrobe,” he replies, knowing how flirtatious that sounds and leaning in to it anyway. 

Baby steps. 

David hums and Patrick can practically see him smiling. “You should be so lucky.”

Silence settles, but it’s comfortable. Patrick opens and closes cabinets, pulling out a dish and silverware and gently kneeing Indiana away from the stove where he’s sniffing optimistically. 

“What did you make tonight?” David asks.

“Lasagna.” 

David lets out a moan that’s positively obscene. Patrick clears his throat and tries to ignore the fact that his jeans were not that tight a minute ago.

“So I take it I’ll be dropping some off for you later.” 

“Oh, um, I mean - if you don’t mind.” 

“It’s no trouble, David. Can’t have my business partner starving.” 

He used to cook for Rachel, but he finds the idea of cooking for David infinitely more appealing. 

“Actually, we already ate tonight,” David says, interrupting his thoughts, “but I wouldn’t say no to some being left in the fridge at work tomorrow.” 

He smiles. “Okay, David.” 

The lockdown is making him cook more, and though he was never bad to begin with, it’s not going to make him a Michelin chef. He’s good with a recipe and he’s good with a grill, but no one should be subjected to any of the more creative concoctions he’s attempted to just whip up _-_

Jesus. If they awarded a PhD in Avoidance, he’d be top of the class. 

He should tell David about Rachel. He should tell his parents about David. 

They know about him in the business-sense. They know he became the partner of someone who had a great idea and a really solid plan, but he wants them to know, ‘There’s a boy I like.’ He wants to say, ‘There’s a boy I think I could love.’ 

16-year-old Patrick never had this moment. He could give it to him now. 

“Listen,” he croaks, overwhelmed by the prospect, “I have to talk to my parents soon. Let me eat, chat with them, and then... maybe we’ll watch a movie?” 

David hums, pretending to think about it. “No sci-fi.” 

“Not to worry, David. I know for a fact that Rose Video used to have an entire aisle dedicated to sports movies. I’ve got you covered.” 

“Mkay. One: absolutely not. B: How do you know that?” 

Patrick grins. He was wondering when this would come out. “Store 785.” 

“Store 785? What the fuck does that mean?” he asks, and then Patrick can practically hear the gears click into place. “Oh my God. Did you work for a Rose Video?” His voice has gone to a decibel only Indiana can hear. 

“Goodnight, David,” Patrick laughs, taking far too much delight in hanging up on him. 

He eats his lasagna, which is actually pretty damn great, if he does say so himself. He saves a middle piece for David, then adds a second to the container and dollops a glop of extra melted cheese on top because he knows David will like that, before cleaning up and pacing the length of his apartment, counting down the minutes until 8pm.

His phone is sweaty in his palm and he can practically feel the weight of his dog’s judgment from where he sits on the couch. 

“Yeah, I know,” he snaps. “I should just call.” 

He’s talked to his parents since he moved. Not as much as he should have, but more than he had once the stay-at-home order had been given. He had fewer and fewer excuses for “I gotta run,” because where the hell was he going to run to? 

But the truth was - he _wanted_ to talk to them. He missed them. He’d always been close to his parents and anytime something good or bad happened, they were usually his first call. To keep them at arm’s length while he’s pretty sure he’s feeling _right_ for the first time in his life makes him feel like he’s being split in two. Severed down the center and his heart doesn’t know which side to go to. 

He hits his mom’s contact and leans against the back of the couch as he listens to the ring in his ear. 

“Sweet boy,” his mother greets. “How did the lasagna turn out?” 

“Great, actually,” he murmurs, both comforted and terrified by her voice. “Um, how are you guys?”

“Oh you know, your father’s decided to conquer every household task and repair from the last twenty years in one weekend, so things are dangerous. He’s only almost fallen off the ladder three times.” 

“Tell him to wait for me, please. I’ll take care of that next time I’m there.” 

She hums teasingly. “And when might that be?” 

He knows she means it in terms of the quarantine, but he can’t help but think about how soon (or not soon) he would have returned even if the world wasn't… well, what it was. He ran away without a single look in the rearview mirror and with no plan to visit any time in the near future. 

Even before the pandemic, he’s not sure he could have given her an answer. 

He could tell her now. He could tell her why he left and why he stayed away. He could tell her that, for the first time in his life, he thinks he knows who he is. And, more importantly, he thinks he knows why. 

“Patrick, honey, are you okay?” 

It’s right there - the tip of his tongue - the words so close he can taste the promise of them: 

_There’s a boy I like._

_There’s a boy I think I could love._

“Fine, Mom.” 

But he doesn’t. 

“Everything’s fine.” 

Because he’s a coward. 

xxxxxx

After Patrick hangs up on him, it takes David an hour to wipe the smile from his face. To the point where Alexis has to ask if the quarantine is turning him into a serial killer and could he please pick an unsuspecting member of the public as his first victim instead of their immediate family. 

The next day isn’t much better, especially when he shows up at the store in the afternoon to find a healthy serving of lasagna waiting for him in the mini-fridge they installed in the backroom. Again, with another post-it: **(It’s been Lysoled)**

His cheeks actually hurt from the smile that’s stretching his lips, and he honestly didn’t think that was something that could happen, but apparently he’s never used those muscles as much as he is these days. He thinks that if he keeps trying to hold in the sheer _enormity_ of all that he’s feeling, he’s going to burst, which is not a good look for this particular McQueen sweater. 

So he reaches out to the only person he can, even though it hurts his soul to do so. 

**_I think I need someone to talk to._ **

And if that isn’t the most pathetic text he’s ever sent. Of course, her reply is immediate and infuriating:

**[Stevie]**   
**Oh good, I have several therapist referrals.**

**_You would._ **

**[Stevie]**   
**Oh, we're doing conversation now?**

**_Don’t push it._ **

He expects a snarky response or perhaps even radio silence, but what happens instead is an incoming FaceTime call. 

“Why are you FaceTiming me?” he answers, which is probably not the best way to greet the person he said he needs to talk to. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your ugly mug,” she replies before giving him a dead-eyed grin. 

“Thanks so much.” 

“And why is that, David? Why _has_ it been so long since I’ve talked to you?” 

“I’ve been… busy.” Which isn’t a _complete_ lie. He _is_ trying to get a business up and running in the middle of a global pandemic.

“With your brand new business partner? Who happens to be very handsome? Who may or may not be into you?” 

“You think he’s handsome?” is the sentence he chooses to focus on and she raises an eyebrow. 

“ _You_ do. Which could be a problem considering he’s your _business partner._ ”

He remains silent and her eyes light up in victory.

“Ah, the crux of the argument.” 

He inhales and props the phone up against the cash register so he can lean his elbows on the counter and drop his head in his hands. 

“What’s wrong with you? Why is your face doing that?” She sounds mildly alarmed. 

He inhales again and exhales through a groan, tugging at his hair, which just goes to show how serious the situation is. He didn’t even put on a beanie that morning. “I don’t know what to do, Stevie.” 

She shrugs. “Tell him.” 

He glares at her. “Are you kidding me?” 

“David, he likes you.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

“Because I stood in your store and told him not to fuck this up.” 

He shoots up so quickly, he stumbles backwards and nearly knocks the business license, the thing that started this all, off the wall. “You did _what_?” 

And in typical Stevie fashion, she ignores him. “David. Tell him. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” 

She’s right. He knows she’s right. And she knows he knows she’s right and he hates her for it. “We’ll be returning to this portion of the conversation later. I want you to know that.” 

“Go get ‘im, tiger.” 

“Shut up.” 

He hangs up on her and stress eats too much lasagna. Then he spends an hour pacing the length of the store doing absolutely zero work, which is problematic considering their website is about to launch, but it’s for the greater good ultimately, given the amount of cheese he just inhaled. After he closes, he spends yet another hour walking around - which these shoes were definitely not made for and his arches will definitely not appreciate come morning.

He ends up in Room Two, which doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. He’s come to think of it as ‘their’ room and if he’s going to do this - if he’s going to put himself out there on a limb, with the full expectation of plummeting to the ground - then he’s going to do it here. In a safe space. Away from the prying eyes of his family who probably already smell blood in the water, given the fact that he just skipped dinner, and David Rose does not willingly forgo food unless the circumstances are dire. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, feeling vaguely like he’s going to be sick. It isn’t the first time he’s made an overt declaration, but it is his first time doing it sober. And with the hope of a slightly more favorable outcome. He wishes he had a bit of dutch courage now, and though there is a bottle of wine stashed in the back of the closet, he’d really prefer to have his weapons at the ready, should they be needed. (He knows they won’t.)

**[Stevie]**   
**Did you do it yet?**

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, sending back a middle-finger emoji and hoping she reads the not-so-subtextual ‘not yet.’ 

With a trembling hand, he pulls up Patrick’s name and hits FaceTime, drumming the fingers of his free hand against his knee, bare skin peaking out beneath the rip in his jeans. 

“Hey,” Patrick greets when the call connects, smile easy, eyes soft. David envies him. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“You okay? This is earlier than we usually talk.” 

“Is that a problem?” he asks, suddenly willing to latch on to anything that might get him out of this. 

“No, no, all good. Indiana and I just got back from a hike. I’m about to reheat some lasagna.” He raises a non-existent eyebrow at David, as if waiting - oh. 

“It was really delicious,” he says, sheepish that he hasn’t said that before now. 

Patrick smiles. “I’m glad. So… ” he trails off, but David doesn’t jump in, “what’s up?” 

“I just wanted to - um, in the interest of us working together,” he says, repeating Patrick’s own words back at him, “I want to come clean about something.” 

Patrick looks apprehensive, but still open-minded. That’s fine. That’s a start. “Okay.” 

He inhales deeply - and then blurts out, “I like you,” on the exhale. 

It sits there, hovering in the silence. And the only reason he doesn’t try to fill it, the only reason he doesn’t immediately start the freakout to end all freakouts is because he can see Patrick’s face. 

His expression morphs from shock to terror to disbelief to something else altogether. Something… good. Possibly great. He looks a bit like a friendly jack-o-lantern, like someone’s carved him out and lit him up from the inside. 

“Oh,” he whispers, which is not exactly the response David was looking for, but Patrick seems a little overwhelmed at the moment, every ounce of confidence and swagger deserting him. 

“Like - I _like_ you, like you,” he feels the need to clarify. _Oh my God, are you twelve?_ Okay. _Now_ , he can spiral. “This really doesn’t need to affect the business. In fact, we don’t need to ever speak about this again - ”

“David,” Patrick interrupts. David can’t actually bring himself to look at the screen. “I… _like_ like you, too.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

They sit. They breathe. They smile. 

And then Patrick takes a hammer to the ice sculpture of his soul: 

“It’s just - ”

Of fucking _course_ there’s a ‘just.’ 

“Um,” Patrick starts, teeth gnawing at his lower lip. David’s never seen him look so uncertain and he feels a sharp pang somewhere behind his ribcage. He wishes he could reach through the phone and put an arm around him. “David, when I told you I was gay, I’m only recently gay. I mean - _fuck._ ” He shakes his head. “I’ve always been gay. But I only recently figured that out.”

It’s such a jolt to hear Patrick curse in comparison to his own lexicon, which isn’t unlike a sailor on shore leave, that it takes him a second to comprehend what he said. 

“Okay.” Is that why he’s so worried? 

“And because of that,” Patrick continues, “Um, I’m not out. To anyone. My - my parents don’t know.” He looks like he could start hyperventilating at any minute. 

“That’s okay. Hey.” He waits until he has Patrick’s focus back on him. “That’s very personal. And it’s something that you should only do on your terms.” 

Patrick swallows and nods. As if sensing his human’s distress, Indiana chooses that moment to nose himself into frame. Patrick pets him distractedly, continuing to nod, as if psyching himself up for something. 

David knows it’s coming the second before it does: 

“There’s something else.” 

Of fucking course there is. What he wants to say is, _Jesus tapdancing Christ_. Instead, what he (calmly) says is, “Go ahead.” 

“I used to be engaged.” 

Well, fuck _._

“To a woman.”

“Uh huh. Yep. Got that.” He wishes he wasn’t on FaceTime now, simply to hide his own expression; it’s doing too many things he can’t control. He’d love to get up and pace, but then Patrick would know just how unmoored he feels so he stays put on the bland comforter that probably hasn’t been washed in far too long. 

He’s been someone’s experiment before. That’s not what he thinks is happening here, not really, but the fear from those past experiences, the _I told you so_ that won’t shut the fuck up is enough to drown out whatever Patrick is saying - 

“... it just never felt right. And up until recently, I didn’t understand why.” His voice cracks and his eyes are pleading with him. “David, I’ve spent most of my life not knowing what right was supposed to feel like. But these last few weeks building this thing with you? You make me feel right, David.” 

Fuck. Eat your heart out, Julian Fellowes. 

“Mkay.” His lower lip is wobbling and that is unacceptable. He doesn’t even know why he’s _upset_. It’s not like Patrick did anything wrong. 

_Because you trust him to help you float, but you’re reluctant to let go of the ledge._

Surely, he has an ex-therapist to thank for that one. 

“This isn’t - ” He gestures to himself and waves a hand in front of his face and the fact that he’s barely holding himself together. “Sorry, this isn’t about you. This is me. This is - fuck,” he whispers. “This is just what I do. My truth is - is that I am damaged goods, and you don’t - ” _want any part of this_ , is the rest of that sentence, but Patrick interrupts before he can give it credence. 

“I’m in this, David,” he says fiercely. “I want this with you. In whatever way you’re willing to have me.” 

Well, damn. He breathes slowly, in and out, the way Patrick told him to that night when he felt like he’d shake apart with a change in the wind. “I think I just - need a minute? To focus?” 

He doesn’t want a minute. He doesn’t even want to need a second. 

“Okay, David,” Patrick replies. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to change his mind. “Take whatever time you need.” 

He looks crushed all the same.

David hates himself for putting that look there.

xxxxxx

Patrick feels raw. 

His head is full of cotton, his chest has been cracked open, and the world is moving in slow motion. He didn’t sleep at all, and he felt every hour that ticked by like another stone dropped on a scale.

What started out as the best phone call of his life rapidly became one of the worst. He doesn’t regret it, though. David deserved to know. Still. 

He wants to get back to what they were before last night; to what they had. It’s like leaving the bed in the middle of the night, coming back, and trying to mold your body to the warm space you left behind before it disappears. 

_“Are you in this?”_ Stevie had asked him, that day in the store. 

So Patrick had said, _“I’m in this, David. I want this with you. In whatever way you’re willing to have me.”_

He meant that. 

He can only hope David knows it. 

_“He’s been... burned in the past. Not just by romantic partners. In business as well.”_ Stevie had said that, too. 

Not just by romantic partners.

_“My truth is that I am damaged goods.”_

Then why does Patrick still feel like the luckiest son of a bitch alive? 

He fills a travel mug full of coffee and blearily reaches for the leash hanging by the door. Indiana sits patiently on the mat, waiting for Patrick to clip it onto his collar. He grunts as he bends down and smiles as Indiana gives him a lick to the chin for his effort. 

“Thanks, bud,” he murmurs, scratching behind his ears and burying his face in his neck. 

It’s early and the dog looks about as tired as Patrick feels. His eyes droop and his paws drag on the ground. The cool morning air will do them both good, though Patrick doesn’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to make him fully functional by the time he’s due at the store at 9am. 

The walk to the park is short and filled with far too many thoughts about the call the night before to focus on any one thing. He feels both light and heavy, the burden of being honest with David gone, but the price he might have had to pay lingering like a verdict over his head. 

The ball’s in David’s court, and Patrick said he’d wait as long as necessary. Whether or not he’s impatient while doing so is his own problem. 

He gets to the grassy clearing, smiling as always at Ronnie’s dilapidated tennis court, and unhooks Indiana’s leash. He pulls the red plastic ball from his pocket, carefully keeping the spare one hidden, and winds up. Indiana takes off before he can even bring his arm forward in a throw that would have gone from center field to home, easily.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and notices someone sitting up ahead on a bench, which is strange. Usually the park is deserted - certainly these days, but especially at this hour.

Luckily, Indiana is too busy bringing the ball back to him to notice the stranger stand and start to make their way over to them. Though friendly, the dog can sometimes be a little too enthusiastic greeting new people, especially when Patrick is the only person he’s seen in months. 

The stranger seems to be wearing a toque, a large cream-colored sweater, and black drop-crotch - Wait. 

He’d know that silhouette anywhere. 

_David._ David is at the park. At seven in the morning.

His lips part and his breath puffs out in front of him, a cloud of fog in the morning chill. He makes an inadvertent noise when David stops walking about twenty meters away because after weeks of distance, it’s suddenly too far. His phone rings in his pocket and he pulls it out without looking at it and answers.

“David,” he breathes, “it’s before 10am.” He couldn’t stop his smile even if he tried. And he’s not trying. 

“Trust me,” David drawls, “I’m well aware.” 

They stare at each other for a moment and, even though he’s too far away to really see, Patrick thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

Indiana nudges his wet nose at Patrick’s limp hand and the ball he barely has a grip on. When a lick and a bark don’t spur his human into action, he does the next best thing: sniffs around until he catches David’s scent on the wind and takes off like a shot.

“Oh my God!” Patrick hears in his ear and he shouts, “Indiana!” But it’s too late. The dog is at David’s feet, body vibrating with all of the energy he’s trying to hold back. He knows he’s not allowed to jump but the temptation of a New Person is almost too much. Poor thing is shaking as he sniffs at David’s hands, which he’s now holding almost above his head. 

“Oh, um, hi,” he murmurs to the dog but into the phone, and Patrick laughs. 

“He doesn’t bite.” 

“It’s not his teeth I’m worried about.” 

“He doesn’t really drool either. He’s a gentleman.” Patrick pats his thigh and shouts, “Indiana, come here! Leave David alone!” 

“No, no,” David manages. It sounds like his teeth are clenched. “It’s all right.” Slowly, _very_ slowly, his free hand comes down and he holds it above Indiana’s head. The dog stands up to his full height so can bring his crown to meet David’s outstretched palm. Only then does he seem to calm down - the shaking stops but the tail certainly doesn’t. “He’s very soft. Sleek.” 

“He has a highly detailed coat regimen.” 

“Well I have a highly detailed skincare regimen.”

“Two peas in a pod,” he murmurs. 

He expects David to have a snarky reply to that, but he doesn’t and they fall into silence again. Indiana stays with David, sitting by his feet and resting his head against David’s hip. Patrick wants to call him a traitor, but he’s honestly thrilled that they seem to tentatively be getting along. Well, Indiana’s besotted. David is… feeling things out. His hand hasn’t stopped stroking Indiana’s ear, though. 

“What’s her name?” David finally asks and Patrick is so lost in the idea of them all piled on a couch together when this is all through that it throws him. 

“What?” 

“Your fiancee.” 

Oh.

“Ex-fiancee,” he quietly clarifies. “Rachel.” 

“Does she know?” 

“That I’m gay?” 

“Yeah.” 

At first he shakes his head, but then he worries that David can’t see it. “No.” 

David continues to pet Indiana almost automatically - like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. 

“Did Indiana belong to both of you?” he asks which is not what Patrick was expecting. 

“Yeah. We got him before we got engaged.” He shrugs, feeling detached now from the emotional chaos of that time. “He was a birthday gift. She got me a dog and I asked her to marry me. It seemed like - it seemed like the thing I should do.” He’s spent his life doing things he thinks he should do. Things he thinks other people expect of him. 

But this - the man in front of him and the business they built together? It might be the first selfish thing Patrick’s done in his life and he can’t find it in himself to feel remotely bad about it. 

“So you got the dog in the divorce?” David can tell his joke falls flat when his fake chuckle barely lasts a second. 

“Well, she got all of our friends, so it seems like an even trade.” He can say that without crying now, which is a step up from a few months ago. “David,” he starts, no longer dancing around the issue, “you have nothing to worry about. I mean it.”

“I know,” David replies. 

“You - you know?” Patrick takes a step forward, then stops. David mirrors him. 

“I knew last night. I just - I needed to wrap my brain around my own insecurities. And I - ” his voice hitches and Patrick takes another step closer, “I have a lot of insecurities.” 

“David - ”

“You said you were in this,” David interrupts. Patrick swallows. 

“I did.” He can hear David’s shaky inhale through the phone, the words he says next crashing over him like a wave. 

“So am I.” 

“I’m…” his throat is tight and he has to clear it, but it does nothing. “I’m really glad to hear that, David,” he croaks. 

They stand in silence once more, comfortable and content. Indiana finally trots back over to Patrick and lays down by his feet. 

“You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” Patrick finally says and David laughs. 

“It’s the hat.” 

“Still haven’t let Alexis give you a haircut?” 

“God, no,” he spits. “I have standards.” 

“You know I won’t care, right? Just in case - that’s what’s holding you back. She could accidentally shave your head - ”

“You bite your tongue,” he hisses, but Patrick keeps going. 

“And I’d still think you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.” 

“Fuck, Patrick,” he whispers, voice wet. 

“It’s the truth,” he replies. Simple, succinct, sincere. 

“I can’t see the details of your face from here,” David murmurs, laughing a little self-consciously. “I’ve gotten used to them.” 

“Well, you’re missing dark circles, bags, and stubble, so it’s probably for the best.” 

But then David says, “I think you’re beautiful, too.” and Patrick’s knees nearly buckle. 

He didn’t know how badly he needed to hear a man say that to him. “We could switch to FaceTime,” he whispers. 

“No, if I have to look at you, I’d prefer the real thing,” David replies, winding him once more.

“I wish I could touch you,” he says without really thinking about it. He doesn’t even mean it in a sexual way, although that is something he’s more than willing to explore. He just wants - Jesus, he just wants a hug. He reaches his arm out, which is kind of pathetic especially considering he’s still holding Indiana’s red ball. The dog immediately perks up and runs in circle, but David’s laughter is echoing in his ear, which makes everything okay. 

“I wish that, too,” David replies. “Some day.” 

“It can’t last forever.” 

“No.” David pauses. “But if it does, maybe we can just, like, self-quarantine for two weeks so we can make out in the stock room.” 

Patrick barks out a laugh even as his ears burn. “Okay, David. Deal.” 

“Write it into the by-laws.” 

“We don’t have by-laws.” 

“Oh my God, are we supposed to?” 

“David, we don’t have a board. No, we’re not supposed to have by-laws. Stop looking up business terms online. You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” Patrick watches him unwind himself, shoulders slowly lowering from where he’d hunched them up around his ears, and chuckles. “Go back to bed, David.” 

They stare at each other for a minute more, before David finally nods and starts to make his way towards the road. 

“Don’t forget the tote bags are supposed to arrive today,” he says as he passes, keeping far enough away from Patrick but petting Indiana who trots up to him once more. 

“I won’t. And I had the company _hopefully_ fix the last few glitches in the website. We could potentially start shipping out orders by the end of the week.” It’s true, they could. Word was getting out. They’ve been getting calls on the store phone wondering when the website would be up and running. 

“That… is very good news,” David replies. 

“The best.” 

“Eh,” David hums, looking at him meaningfully. “Almost the best.” 

Patrick inhales sharply. 

_I could love you._

God, he could say it right now, under the cover of the early morning haze. He could and he would, if he let the more impulsive part of his brain override the rational. 

David starts to walk away again, but impulsivity is winning out, possibly for the first time in his life. 

“Hey,” he says, and David turns. “It was really good to see you.” 

David cradles the phone to his cheek, lips pulling to the side in Patrick’s favorite half-smile. He knows it’s there, even if he can’t really see it from this distance. 

“It was really good to see you, too.” 

He and David FaceTime again that night, memorizing the details of each other’s expressions that they couldn’t see that morning. 

They fall asleep watching Star Wars because, though David won’t do sci-fi for young, hot Harrison Ford, it turns out he’ll do a great many things for Patrick Brewer. 

xxxxxx

He thinks it’s been a week since the park, but honestly who the fuck knows these days. David’s panting by the time he blows through the door of Room Two, excitement and anxiety clawing away at his throat and adrenaline spiking so hard, he can barely get his finger to tap on Patrick’s contact. 

“Hey, you.” 

“Have you seen the news?” he blurts out, forcing himself to bypass how ‘hey you’ makes him feel. 

“I have,” Patrick replies. 

“They’re opening things back up.” 

“I know.” 

“Cases are down.” 

“I saw.” 

“Patrick, we can _open_!” He can feel his face blanch. “Oh _fuck_ , we can open.” 

His phone pings in his ear and he accepts Patrick’s incoming FaceTime call. 

“Breathe, David,” he says automatically when it connects, and David does as he’s told. “Everything’s going to be okay. The website just launched. We’ll start doing curbside pickup immediately. We can limit the number of people in the store to two or three at a time. Hell, Joanie can make us custom masks along with the totes if that will make you feel better.” 

It might, actually. That’s not a bad idea. David has no idea how he didn’t think of that before. 

“It won’t quite be the grand opening we were hoping for,” Patrick continues, “but word is getting around. People need this, David.” 

He breathes out and feels his heartbeat drop to a trot from the gallop it had accelerated to. “Is it possible to miss you when I haven’t even really seen you?”

Oh. _That_ was a lot of sentiment for barely noon. 

“Yes,” Patrick whispers, making everything okay. “Because I feel the same.” He smiles. “Do you want me to call Joanie about the masks?” 

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Get a quote please.” 

“Okay, David. Now go get showered and dressed, because it’s almost your turn here,” Patrick says with a grin, eyes flicking up to his hair. 

“Oh my God!” David didn’t even realize that in his haste to get Patrick on the phone, he completely forgot to shove a beanie on his head. 

“Never speak of this again. Bleach this from your brain.” 

“Never.”

He groans and stomps because he’s a toddler, but Patrick keeps looking at him like he’s a Choux à la Crème from Odette’s in the 5th arrondissement. 

“Hey, David?”

“Yeah?” he says a little petulantly. Patrick’s smile only grows. 

“This will be the last day we have to take shifts.” 

“Oh.” Right. Holy _shit._

Seemingly taking David’s axis-tilting realization as hesitation, Patrick continues: 

“Look, how about we take tomorrow just for us. We can fulfill whatever online orders have come in and prepare the store for foot traffic. We’ll offer curbside pickup for the rest of this week and, starting next, we can aim to let people in. Sound like a plan?” 

A plan. His boyfriend has a plan - oh. Oh _no._

“It’s a plan,” he rasps, unwilling and unable to untangle the ‘boyfriend’ of it all. _You’ve literally never even been in the same room as him. At ease, sailor._ Still. He can’t help but add: “Just us.” 

“Good. We’ll talk later?” 

“We can talk whenever you’d like.” 

He showers and changes in a haze, wondering how it’s possible for so many good things to happen during so many bad times. He’s lucky. He knows how lucky he is. How lucky they all are. Rural Ontario isn’t exactly a hotspot and, though the threat seemed distant, the fear was still very much real. 

_“This town might just be your saving grace.”_ That’s what the Revenue guy said to them that terrible, excruciating day. 

Maybe he wasn’t so far off. 

He arrives at the store (thirty minutes after he’s meant to) to find that Patrick has already installed a hand sanitizer dispenser on the inside of the door. A sign hangs above it in the store’s signature font asking people politely but firmly to use it. 

Oh Patrick knows the way to his heart: concise directions on proper cleanliness in a custom script he designed? Sign him the fuck up. 

When he returns to the motel that evening, he places the bag of takeout from Twyla on the table, eyeing Alexis who purposefully doesn’t look in his direction, choosing instead to huff against her headboard like Lydia Wickham in front of a militiaman. 

“How was your day?” 

She snorts. “Like you care.” 

That pulls him up short. Maybe years ago that would have been accurate, but they’ve been better. Sort of. 

Sometimes. 

_“Well, you didn’t have to worry about me.”_

_“Well, I did.”_

“Um, I do, actually,” he says slowly, ignoring the wonderful smell of fried cheese to step closer to the bed. “Look, I know I’ve been busy setting up the store - ”

“Which is great for you, David. _So_ happy.” She flips a page in the magazine she’s reading so harshly, he swears she must have given herself a paper cut. “But you haven’t once, like, asked me how school is. Or - or what’s going on with Ted, or how it’ll suck when my graduation gets postponed...”

He _definitely_ doesn’t point out that she already had the opportunity to attend one once before. Thinking back on the last couple of weeks, he vaguely remembers her talking about a term paper. He was rushing out the door to talk to Patrick so he’s honestly not sure which class it was for. Something with numbers? 

“Um, how did your… Economics paper go?” 

She lifts her chin and pretends to read an article from 1994. “I got a 78.” 

“Hey, that’s great!” And to be honest, for Alexis, it is. 

“Yeah, well.” She flips another page and can’t hide her wince from the cut this time.

He sighs, digging his thumbs into the bridge of his nose. He’ll admit (under duress) that he hasn’t exactly been the best brother recently. Then again, they’ve all basically been trapped in the same two motel rooms since even before the world went to shit. No one is pulling a Sandy and winning Miss Congeniality here. 

“I think…” Oh God, he’s going to regret every word of this, “I think I’d like you to give me a haircut.” 

He expects a biting remark or sarcastic retort, but she just looks up at him slowly and _beams_ , tossing her magazine to the side and patting the edge of the bed. He pulls off his hat and ignores her feigned gasp of disgust. 

“Sit. Let me at your tresses.” He does and she kneels on the bed behind him, gently tugging his hair straight to see how long it actually is. “Mkay, well it’s not as bad as I thought it would be so yay for us, David. You’re not channeling Tom Hanks in Castaway yet.” 

He rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile as she shoves him off the bed and towards the bathroom. “Go wash your hair. Leave it as wet as possible. You get one mozzarella stick for every step you do without complaint.”

Ugh, she knows him too well. 

He does as he’s told and emerges, towel wrapped around his shoulders and sweater discarded in favor of a t-shirt. He bans his parents when they poke their heads in wondering what’s taking the food so long (having one Rose witness this humiliation is enough), and they retreat to their room with their dinner, leaving David sitting at the table, chomping on a mozzarella stick as Alexis stands behind him, remarkably focused. 

_“She could accidentally shave your head and I’d still think you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”_

He may have to hold Patrick to that. He _really_ hopes he doesn’t have to. 

“They’re opening the town tomorrow,” Alexis says. “With restrictions, obviously.” 

“Yep.” He takes another bite of fried cheese and closes his eyes, praying to the hair gods that Alexis can talk and snip at the same time. 

“Does that mean you and button will finally be together?” 

His eyes open once more. “Guess so,” he says entirely too casually. Again, he braces himself for a snarky remark that never comes. 

“You’re happier,” she says instead. 

He hums, but doesn’t disagree. He knows he is. 

“And I’m happy for you.” 

He sucks in a breath and holds it, uncertain that when he exhales, an embarrassing noise won’t follow in its wake. 

“You know, when this all started, I thought it was the end of the world.” He holds his hand up over his shoulder, palm up, and she takes it, squeezing it tightly. 

“I know what you mean,” she quietly replies. A rare serious moment for the two of them. 

“I was glad I was with you,” he manages, very glad they aren’t facing each other, because when she leans down and presses a kiss to his wet head, he damn near loses it again. 

“Ew, David,” she murmurs without heat or malice. It’s teasing and it’s loving, and he laughs because he’s not sure if good things happen during bad times or if bad times make the good things seem great. 

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. 

Eventually, she declares him finished and he washes off the excess hair in exchange for the final mozzarella stick. Looking in the mirror, it’s clear that Alexis has actually… done a very good job. And he tells her so. She boops his nose and asks if he wants to watch a movie. Her tone is casual but her eyes are anything but. 

He tells Patrick that they can’t FaceTime because he needs some sibling bonding. He completely understands, of course, because he’s perfect, and David feels lighter than he has in years as he and Alexis settle in to watch _The First Wives’ Club_.

He sends off one last text as Diane, Goldie, and Bette each have their existential crisis on screen, just to quell the anxiety beginning to bubble up in the pit of his stomach: 

**_Are we ready to do this?_ **

The response is constant and confident, much like the man himself: 

**[Patrick]**  
 **Let’s open the doors.**

xxxxxx

Patrick’s t-shirt is sticking to his back as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, reading the text he just sent to David for the third time in the last two minutes. He gets to the landing to find Indiana already waiting by the front door, nosing at the handle.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he mutters, dragging his tired body up the last remaining steps. His quads burn and his heart is still pounding from the hike. He might have gone a little too hard in his efforts to burn off the excess excitement about seeing David the next morning. He doesn’t need another sleepless night, especially since they’ll be a lot closer together than the previous twenty meters afforded. 

He pulls his keys out and gets the door open, letting Indiana enter first. “Ah, where do you think you’re going?” he asks as the dog makes a beeline for the bedroom. Indiana trots back, head hung low, and dutifully waits as Patrick cleans his paws with wipes. 

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his hoodie and he half expects it to be David again, but he finally looks at it after he takes off his shoes and a text from his mom lights up the screen:

**[Mom]**   
**How’s my grandson?**

He snorts, but sends her a picture of Indiana sitting dutifully on the dog bed they gifted him, head tilted and tongue lolling out in a smile. 

**_Spoiled, per usual._ **

He unzips his hoodie and tosses it in the laundry, followed by his t-shirt and socks. The store opens tomorrow. He and David will be in the same space at the same time and he’s already half-hard in his sweatpants thinking about it. He’s not entirely sure how he’ll be expected to get any sort of work done and keep his hands to himself. Maybe they can trade off: fifty minutes of work for ten minutes of making out… Forty/twenty. Twenty/forty?

Maybe they _should_ have by-laws. 

He fiddles with the phone in one hand as he shucks his sweats with the other, kicking them off in the general direction of the hamper. 

He feels infinitely better for having told David about his parents - 

But he still hasn’t told his parents about David. 

_David._ He’s been so brave: telling Patrick he likes him, showing up at the park that morning, starting this whole business to begin with. And Patrick wants to show him he’s in this just as much as David is. Not just with his words. 

He wants to be brave. 

**_Actually do you and Dad have time to talk tonight?_ **

He hits send on the text he’s almost sent a million other times, the text he _has_ sent and claimed was about something else, swallowing hard. He doesn’t even wait for a reply before he drops the phone on the bed and heads for the bathroom. 

He’s quick to shower, partly out of habit, partly out of anxiety, and partly because he’s so horny, he barely has to touch himself before he’s coming all over the tile. 

He groans in amused embarrassment, but honestly, it can’t be helped. He lets the hot water beat down on his sore muscles for a minute more before getting out and drying off. When he checks the phone on the bed, there’s a text waiting for him:

**[Mom]**   
**Of course, sweet boy.**

He stares at it. And then stares some more. He’s going to see David tomorrow morning and he’s going to tell his parents about him tonight. 

He pulls on pajamas and goes over to the couch, too nervous to eat despite the fact that he’s feeling a little lightheaded after the hike. He sighs as he stares at his phone, glancing up as Indiana comes over and noses at his hand. 

“I think I’m gonna need you, buddy,” he murmurs, and as if he understands, the dog is quick to hop up on the couch and lay his head in Patrick’s lap, his body a warm, comforting weight at his side. 

He pulls up his Mom’s contact and, as he does, he realizes he’s never actually FaceTimed them before. For so long, they lived minutes away from each other. They had dinner every Sunday night. And then, when he moved, well. He didn’t really want to see much of anybody from his hometown. 

Then the world fell apart. And he started reaching out again because he was worried. It repaired a relationship they didn’t even know why had broken in the first place - text by text, call by call, week by week. 

It feels odd to be grateful for something so horrible. 

He clicks her contact and rests his elbow on his knee, absentmindedly curling around Indiana’s head as the call attempts to connect. He hears his mom before he sees her: a rustle, a thud, and then a muttered curse. 

“Mom!” he jokingly chastises. 

“Sorry! Just - how does this work?” Her video is taking a bit to start. “I can’t see you. Am I doing it wrong?” 

“Give it a second,” he laughs. “Your wifi is garbage, I’ve been telling you that for years.” 

“Oh!” she greets when the video kicks in. “You need a haircut, sweet boy.” 

He rolls his eyes like he’s fifteen all over again. “I know, Mom. Forgive me for being a well-behaved member of society.” 

“It’s so nice to see you,” she says, and there’s sadness coloring her tone, there and gone in a moment. “Let me get your father. He’s mourning the lack of sports - Excuse me, the lack of _proper_ sports. Did you know there’s a national stone skipping competition?” 

“No,” he smiles, “No, I did not.” 

She looks different. Older - lines around her eyes and grey streaking her roots since she hasn’t been able to go to the salon. But she seems happy and that’s all he cares about. 

He hopes he makes her happy. 

“Well, that’s what he forced us to watch yesterday. Clint! Patrick’s on the phone.” 

He can tell she’s in the kitchen, the familiar cabinets a comfort now after so many years of rooting through them, looking for the secret stash of unhealthy snacks his mom hid around the place. 

“Oh, hey bud!” his dad says leaning down into the frame. Indiana immediately perks up at the sound of his father’s voice, because wherever his father goes, scraps from the table are sure to follow, no matter what Patrick says. He tilts the phone down so they can see Indiana in his lap, but he has to pull it away when the dog tries to lick it. 

“No, you lunatic.” 

“There’s my sweet boy,” his mom says, and he frowns into the screen. 

“I thought _I_ was your sweet boy.” 

“I can have two,” she reasons, but no she can’t, when one of them is her only son and the other is a _dog._

He’s stalling and he knows it. 

“Um, I wanted to talk to you guys about something.” 

“Okay.” His mom is overly upbeat and he can’t help but smile. She always did overcompensate when feeling nervous yet trying to exude an overall sense of calm. 

“Um, maybe you should sit.” 

“Sure thing,” he dad says, as even-keeled as Patrick has ever heard him. They must know. When he asked to talk and then FaceTimed them, they had to realize that something was up. 

They take a seat at the kitchen table, the same wooden piece that he’s eaten on and cried at and, during one unfortunate incident involving a broken plate, bled on. 

“Um, look.” He inhales deeply and runs his fingers through Indiana’s short fur. “I know I owe you an explanation.” 

“You don’t owe us anything, honey,” his mom says and he loves them so much. So, _so_ much. Which is why he does. 

“I do, though. I just - I left. And I didn’t tell you why. And I want to now. Now that I - that I know myself.” He licks his lips. He really should have gotten a glass of water. “Um, I mean, you knew it wasn’t working with Rachel. We broke up. We got back together. It was just- over and over again. And that’s no way to go through a relationship. But the thing is - I couldn’t figure out what the issue was. I loved Rachel. I love her, still. But…” his eyes flick up to the screen and he finds nothing but compassion staring back at him, “not in the way she wants and deserves to be loved. And probably not in the way she _should_ be loved. By her husband.” 

_Breathe. In and out._

“Mom, Dad…” He looks up, calm. Resolute. Brave. “I’m gay.” 

The world shifts. Tilts. 

“Oh,” his mom breathes. And then she smiles. “Okay.” 

The world rights itself once more. 

“Okay?” he chokes, because it can’t be that easy. Can it? 

“We only want you to be happy, sweetheart,” she says, getting close to the phone, the eyes she gave him making sure he’s paying attention. 

“That’s all we’ve ever wanted,” his dad murmurs, tears clouding his eyes. Tears of joy. “You look happy now.” 

And he can’t help but laugh, wet and raw and so, so relieved. “I am.” 

Maybe the world was always angled and has only now, with those words - _I’m gay_ \- started to course-correct. 

“I wish I could hug you, sweet boy.” 

“Same,” he replies. He’s never wanted to be with them more. After months of avoidance, the dam has broken, and he feels five-years-old all over again. 

“You said, ‘now that I know myself,” his dad begins, looking eager for information but also like he’s not trying to push too hard. Jesus, he’s just as bad as his mom. “What, um - was there something in particular that prompted this realization?” His mom elbows him, but he ignores her. “Or… someone?” 

And God, he can’t help the smile. Or the blush. Or the rush of emotion that threatens to squeeze the air from his lungs like a rag. “Yeah,” he manages. “It’s David.” 

“David?” his dad asks. “Business partner-David?” His mom grabs his dad’s arm and bites her lips. 

“He and I, um. It’s - it’s new. But it’s…” He trails off, trying to find the words for what falling for David Rose feels like. He can’t. 

“Oh Patrick,” his mom breathes, tears falling onto her cheeks, and she knows. He doesn’t need to say what it is because they can see it on his face. They can study it in the features they gave him that have never quite lit up the way they are now. 

It’s as simple as that. 

“Tell us about him.” 

So he does.

He tells of disaster Zoom calls and incorporation forms and high voicemails. Of virtual business meetings that became personal FaceTime chats. Of flirty texts and panic attacks and movie nights and pasta dishes. Of a park on a cold morning and nine words that changed his life: 

_“You said you were in this… So am I.”_

He hangs up hours later, drained and overjoyed, and just cries. He cries for the months lost avoiding his parents, for the years he and Rachel spent forcing something that wasn’t right, for the little boy who felt _different_ and tried so hard to fit in. He cries for how happy he is, here and now, even as the world works to piece itself back together. 

Indiana licks the tears from his cheeks and he laughs until he can’t anymore - exhausted, excited, and absolutely _starving_. With shaking fingers, he pulls up his text thread with David, passing along the last thing his mom and dad said to him before hanging up. The thing he promised he’d make happen as soon as humanly possible: 

**_My parents would like to meet you._ **

His phone is about to die, but it has enough juice for one last text to come through. And when it does, he cries all over again: 

**[David]**   
**I’m so fucking proud of you.**

xxxxxx

David gets to the store early - much earlier than necessary or humane - mainly so he can beat Patrick (the psycho morning person that he is) and put the dog bed he purchased as a surprise underneath the cash. 

“Incorrect,” he murmurs with a smile, smoothing a hand over the navy blue, eco-friendly fabric that will go nicely with Indiana’s silver coat. He refuses to cave (much) on store decisions, but he’ll be generous about this. About this admittedly adorable creature that’s burrowed his way into David’s heart. 

Not unlike his owner.

“Compromise,” Stevie had told him when he called her to complain. Granted, she was being a complete troll at the time, but she may have had a point. 

He places his macchiato on the counter alongside Patrick’s tea - 

And then the bell over the door rings and he freezes. 

He wants to turn around, but he can’t. He’s pinned to where he stands, clammy palms flat on the wooden counter, leaving prints he’ll have to wipe down later. The air is charged and he closes his eyes, not caring that it causes a tear he didn’t even realize was forming to splash down onto his cheek. 

He feels the press of a palm in the space between his tense shoulders. It’s tentative at first and the breath that gusts out of Patrick’s mouth, warming the back of his neck, makes David shiver. 

“David,” he whispers, and David’s answering inhale is ragged. 

He’s so touch-starved. He’s so touch-starved for _this man_ alone, and he didn’t realize it until this second. He leans back, head dropping back onto Patrick’s shoulder as he exhales a shuddering breath and presses their temples together. Patrick’s arms wrap around his waist, solid and secure, holding him up when all his knees want to do is give out. He presses a kiss at the junction where neck meets shoulder and the whole of time seems to coalesce into this one perfect moment. 

“Patrick,” he replies. 

It’s all they say. 

It’s all they need to.

When this began, everything was unknown. It was frightening and annoying and worrying and it still is. But at least he’s not alone. 

He thought it was the end of the world. 

Turns out it was just the start of another.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe. Stay happy. Stay healthy. x


End file.
